


Things we said today

by Rioviolina



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen, M/M, death threats#ku klux klan# 1966# drug taking# controversy#non-consensual sex#
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 02:49:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11888355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioviolina/pseuds/Rioviolina
Summary: The start of the 1966 tour and the "more popular than Jesus" comment





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little piece...I may continue...depends. Comments always welcome.

When it happened it happened suddenly. Absolutely no warning. They were backstage at the International Ampitheatre in Chicago at the very beginning of their tour. They'd arrived in the city yesterday and faced a gruelling press conference with John trying to apologise yet at the same time defend his right to have made the comment about them being more popular than Jesus. In America it seemed to have translated into "bigger than Jesus" which threw a whole different light on the subject. In fact, it made it worse.   
And now there were protests, and demonstrations, and Beatle records being burned, and wooden crosses with their L.P.'s nailed to them being set alight. It was like a scene from Dante's Inferno. Brian had arrived ahead of them and tried to smooth it over, but it hadn't worked. A portion of America were out for blood. Beatle blood. And they were worried. Never had they felt such hate. 

In their usual way they tried to laugh it off, hiding their fear from one another.  
"Got some fan letters, then, Rings?" enquired George, seeing Ringo waving a handful of letters.  
"If he has, he'll be the only one" muttered John to himself. Paul heard him though, and shook his head.  
"Nah...just death threats" Ringo responded, trying to lighten the atmosphere.   
Well, that went down a bomb, he thought, looking at Paul's glum face, John's belligerent stare and George's mournful gaze.   
Ringo sighed, and gazed round the functional room with it's concrete floor and plastic chairs and bottles of water. Their first show in America since John's comment.   
The instruments were tuned ready, three guitars propped against the side, Ringo's drumsticks nearby. Brian was having a discussion with the promoter about the numbers and the security involved. He didn't want to see anyone of his beloved boys injured.  
"We're fucking sitting ducks out there" one of them whispered. Paul's ears picked it up. He was nervous. Always he had a little flutter of nerves, but this was no little flutter. This was a major full-on unable to function properly scenario. He swallowed, a dry lump in his throat, and hoped that the pill Mal had passed to him a few minutes ago would hurry up and kick in. Maybe he should have another? Were the others feeling as nervous as him?  
Paul glanced around. John looked miles away, his eyes focused somewhere on the toes of his black boots. Ringo was tapping a nervous rhythm on his knees with his fingers. George looked morose. It was like sitting in a dentist's waiting room. No, scrub that, Paul thought, it was like waiting for an execution...shit! He was supposed to be the sensible one...what the hell was he doing thinking things like that? The atmosphere was draining, leeching the life out of them, filling the room with a thick cloying invisible substance that removed the ability to speak, to move. Never had they been so quiet before a show. Normally they'd be on their feet, checking instruments, joking, having a last fag, a quick swig of water or something stronger for dutch courage. George tapped his foot to an invisible beat. Paul leaned back on the plastic chair, a weird buzzing in his ears, as if he was underwater. He shook his head, but it persisted. The silence, apart from the murmur of Brian's voice, was deafening. 

Then there was movement near to the door of their room, and the sound of the crowd outside wafted in.  
Brian turned to them.  
"You're on in five, boys....good luck."

When it happened it happened suddenly. Absolutely no warning.  
As Paul stood up from the chair, so bile rose in his throat. Next second everyone dodged swiftly out of the way as he vomited, the contents of his stomach splattering across the nearby floor. The look on his face would have been comical if it had been a joke. Then another wave hit him, and the others scrambled for safety.  
"Jesus Christ.."he heard John exclaim. From his peripheral vision Paul could see George's face whiten...he couldn't stand seeing anyone be sick. Ringo looked concerned, a frown in his blue eyes. Then Paul felt bile rise again, and covered his mouth with his hand quickly.  
Someone took him by the arm...Mal? was it Mal?...and steered him swiftly into the toilets, shoving his head over the basin just in time.   
Mal said something to him, but Paul couldn't respond. The buzzing had started again in his ears, and he was hot...so, so hot, he could feel sweat trickling under his collar, down his back. Mal..was it Mal?...was pushing him onto a chair, and someone else was putting a glass of water into his hand...but his hand was shaking so much he lost most of it. It splattered onto the floor near to the vomit, and now Paul could smell it, and oh God!..not again.....no, false alarm. There couldn't be anything left in him. Jesus, that meant the pill...an' how was he gonna function, and...and...He was shaking so much surely everyone could hear his teeth chattering, and Christ he'd made a fool of himself in front of everyone, and he didn't like doing that, didn't like exposing his emotions, and oh shit! how the fuck was he gonna perform?...his mind was on overdrive, whizzing along at ninety miles an hour and no brake and...and..  
A hand slipped over his, holding the glass still.  
"Paul"  
..and I'm not gonna be able to do it...  
"Paul"  
Paul drew a shuddering breath. John crouched near to him, steadying the glass, his eyes fixed on Paul to the exclusion of everyone else in the room.  
"You'll be okay.."  
but the pill...my hands..  
"It'll be okay."  
"John..I can't...I can't.."  
"Yes you can, Macca...you've done it before and you'll do it again."  
There was the murmur of voices at the door. Queries. Is everything okay? They should be on by now. Brian...Brian asking...  
John remained by Paul's side, staunch and unmoving. He turned to look at the assembled chattering, twittering group.  
"SHADDUP!" he yelled.  
Despite himself, Paul's mouth gave an involuntary twitch. John caught the movement. He grinned at Paul while running his thumb over Paul's knee comfortingly.  
"'I'm sorry I got you into this mess kiddo" John murmured, giving Paul all his attention. He set himself as a shield between Paul and the rest of the entourage. No one was gonna get past John Winston Lennon until he had Paul grounded again. Bugger them. Bugger them all.  
Paul felt like crap. His mouth tasted like sandpaper and his suit was wrecked he'd already sweated so much. But he kept his gaze firmly fixed on John as if to a life line. While John was there he could feel himself calming, his breathing slowing, and in his head a little thought began to take root that yes, maybe just, yes, he could...he could do this...if he had John there by his side.  
A pair of polished brown shoes honed into view, but their gazes did not falter.  
"John, is he okay? Is he going to be alright to perform? You, er,..you should have been on a few minutes ago." Brian's voice, unsure.   
John felt a pang of guilt. What had he just put everyone through all because of a chance remark to a reporter months ago. Brian trying to apologise on his behalf. Paul throwing up with nerves. These were people he loved. He really didn't mean to wreck their lives.  
He gave a smile into Paul's eyes, then released his gaze to turn to Brian, seeing only worry and concern etched on their manager's face.  
"If he's not up to it, I'll cancel."  
My God...it wasn't often their manager ever said that!  
"He'll be okay, Eppy, don't you worry. He's a pro, is our Paul. Anyway..." he glanced at Paul again " just mime, son, they ain't gonna listen anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two shows, backstage, ....etc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know where this is gonna go yet but I have a few ideas

As they ran out into the stadium heading towards the makeshift stage they were hit by the sound of what seemed to be hundreds of jet planes landing, but ominously underneath there seemed to be rumbles of anger too. Thousands of flashbulbs were going off, despite it still being late afternoon. John led the way, his guitar tightly gripped in his hand. As he passed Brian he heard him hiss loudly "John..you do the mic...the mic..okay?" Fuck. Yeah, guessed he'd have to. It should have been Paul...he was good at that, even if he did tend to blab a bit. No chance of that in this set. Paul was right at John's heels, so close John could almost hear him breathing, so close he could feel him, so close John almost tripped up over Paul's feet. John had a sudden image come to him of Christians being thrown to the lions...but after the comment he'd just made over Jesus maybe he ought to push that image out of his head.

They arrived on the podium to an intensified screaming. For a second they were busy plugging guitars into amps, the flash of bulbs and the screams the usual sidetrack to their lives. John turned to wave at the crowd, and the screams became louder still if that were even possible. Come on Paul...normally this is you, waving and winking and thumbs-upping.  
He glanced at his song-writing partner....not a difficult thing to do as Paul was practically glued to his hip. John frowned, disconcerted. Paul had a frozen glassy smile on his face but it was as if his muscles had stopped working. John recognised it for what it was...fear...plain bloody terrified....Jesus, I've got to get him through this...got to get them all through it. It's my fault. Maybe once we start.....John glanced round..Ritchie ready on drums, George...god, he seemed miles away. John gestured for him to get closer, and he did so, yanking his guitar lead round his feet. 

Well...on mic or not, no way was John going to attempt an announcement. Let's just go straight in...here we go...Rock and Roll music....3..4..1..  
"Just let me hear some more o' that rock n roll music..."  
Paul next to him at the mic, sweat pouring down his face. John watched in detached fascination. It was as if Paul was melting like a wax candle beside him. Paul always sweat more than the others anyway. John wondered if one day after a show he might just find he had a puddle of Paul at his feet...and then what would they do? All these illogical thoughts ran through John's head even as he sang....but Paul? Mr Perfectionist next to him? None of the notes Paul was hitting had anything to do with the song they were playing...neither, come to that, did the words...John tried to listen harder but couldn't pick out over the screaming what was exactly coming out of Paul's mouth. Ah well! If he couldn't hear then you could surely bet no one else could. 

"Baby's in black" John hissed at Paul, and went on to introduce it amidst a crescendo of screams. He glanced at Paul to come in with him...the first couple of notes weren't quite true but then Paul found the harmony and their voices blended, but...Christ...Paul was nearly on top of him. So close John's right hand could hardly strum the chords...he tried to shift but Paul shifted with him, blocking him...it suddenly dawned on John what Paul was doing..it came to him intuitively, like a flash...Paul was shielding him with his own body...in case...just in case...A rush of warmth and love tore through John for his partner at that precise moment, and almost as if he could feel it Paul turned to look at him, and there was knowledge within his eyes.

The next one should have been Yesterday, but John interpreted the mute appeal in Paul's eyes and passed the piece straight over, pointing instead to Ringo for 'I wanna be your man'....good bloke. He picked up the cue...no one would notice they'd skipped one of their pieces...well, Brian might, but he'd guess why. Get through it. Just get through it. Head down, minimum announcements...ignore the big banner that read 'Beatles Go Home' fluttering in the breeze. They played like four madmen on speed. 

Then it was over, and they were waving, heading off the podium...a few hours...do it all again.

John glanced round for Paul. Ringo interpreted his searching gaze and crooked a thumb in the direction of the showers.  
"Clean shirts hanging up over there boys"  
"Well done..well done, all of you.." "Anyone seen me pleck? Mal...got another pleck? Musta dropped it."  
"Water, please" "Tea...Paul'll have tea too"  
Brian moved silently to John's side, his voice low.  
"Well done, John. I was proud of you. No 'Yesterday' then?"  
John knew Eppy would notice. He pulled a face "Poor bugger couldn't have handled it...he's all over the place as it is."  
Eppy squeezed John's arm, then blushed at his own audacity.  
"Will he be okay for later? You've got about three hours before the next performance. They're bringing food round...I'll do my best to keep reporters out."  
John glanced at his watch, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Would Paul be alright? Would he be alright? Shit...would any of them be alright?  
"I'll go check on him"

The showers were the kind you'd find in any athletic stadium or multi-purpose complex....open, informal, benches running round the room, lockers...unused...communal showers and the ever pervasive smell of sweat, shampoo and plimsolls. Paul was sitting, dripping wet, a towel slung low around his hips, his eyes vacant, staring at nothing. He was smoking...no prizes for guessing what..a bit careless of him!...and apart from the smoke that surrounded him he had also shrouded himself in an invisible barrier that appeared impenetrable. He didn't even acknowledge John's arrival, or his presence at he sat down next to Paul. John watched him in silence for a moment, his eyes following the path of a drip that began at the bottom of Paul's hair and slowly meandered it's way down, past narrow shoulder blades, finding a spinal path, finishing in the soft rim of the towel.  
The smoke was pungent. Good weed? Paul had a rhythm going.....raise spliff to lips, take drag, hold, absorb, release, return,....it was almost soothing in it's precise rhythm. John chuckled inwardly. Trust Paul to turn something as mundane as having a joint into a musical performance.  
"Macca?"  
Slowly the heavy-lidded eyes turned to look at John. They were cloudy, and John really wasn't sure if much was going on in there. Surely Paul wasn't stoned already? He's supposed to be the sensible one..he has no right to...John brought himself up short, recalling Paul's earlier action on stage, getting in front of John. John sighed. Christ...Paul was smoking a weighty joint on an empty stomach here. Older Lennon kicked in.  
"You need to eat." It was a statement.  
Paul shrugged. "'M'not hungry."  
"Tough. You have to eat. Can't go on nothing all day. Got another show to do."  
Paul echoed his sigh, and flicked the ash lazily off his cigarette.  
"How long we got?"  
John looked at his watch. "A little less than three hours, son."  
Paul rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Y'know" he murmured "I think George might have a point."  
John cocked an eyebrow quizzically. Paul looked him straight in the eye.  
"About giving up touring."  
What? Whew! What the fuck...Macca...stop touring?...no way...shit! this must be bad.  
John leaned over and patted him on a bony exposed knee.  
"Get dressed, Paul. We'll discuss it when you're not stoned."  
John stood up to leave, turning away. As he did so he heard Paul's voice, quiet.  
"'M' not stoned, y'know." It sounded sad. Empty.  
John turned back to look at him. Into John's head shot a picture of a young Paul, clad in leather, eyes shining, drunk with the thrill of performing. What had happened?  
John found he was swallowing a lump the size of an egg in his throat.

George, freshly showered, arrived at John's side.  
"Someone ought to take that bottle off Ritchie" he whispered vehemently into John's ear. John glanced over to where Ritchie, big smile on his face, was waving around a bottle of bourbon. John met George's glance.  
"Why don't you?"  
George shrugged. "'Cos you're older than me, oh venerable statesman" and moved away swiftly. John swore to himself and moved in the direction of Ringo.  
"Hey up, how y' doing Bongo?"  
Ringo beamed an all-encompassing smile at him.  
"I'm doing very well, Johnny boy" he replied, waving the bottle. John tried to catch it, but Ringo moved it swiftly away again.  
"Ah..ah..you want some, ask me nicely"  
"Well...a little tipple wouldn't go astray, thank you kindly."  
Reluctantly Ringo handed the bottle over, and John stood up with it swiftly.  
"I'll just go find meself a glass."  
Ringo looked confused for a second, then beamed again. "No...straight from the bottle, that's how I've been drinking it."  
John glanced at the bottle. Fucking hell..over a third had gone. Between a stoned McCartney and a drunk Ringo the group was in for a great performance, John thought bitterly.  
He caught George's accusing glance. Accusing? What've I done?...oh..that...right.  
He saw Paul enter the room, dressed but hair still wet, and immediately a couple of reporters who'd managed to infiltrate honed in on him. Clutching the bottle tightly, John pushed between them. There they were, notebooks and pens at the ready, and Paul was looking confused. Whatever they'd asked him it obviously hadn't registered.  
"Excuse me, gentlemen, excuse me" John pulled out his upper class British accent " but myself and my here..partner.." he gave a slight pause on the word and wiggled his eyebrows " have something of tremendous importance to discuss, if you'll excuse us, like!" He dropped back into scouse at the culmination of the sentence, took firm hold of Paul's arm and steered him over towards an overladen table of food. With a wave of his hand holding the bottle, he indicated it  
"Eat" he ordered. Paul arched an eyebrow at the bottle.  
"Why? What are you doing?"  
"I've just removed this off Rings. So far I've only got half a group capable of playing. Now maybe if you get something inside you it'll make three quarters of a group...then I'll work on sobering up Ritchie."  
All the time John was conscious of George's eagle eyes following him.  
I'm trying, Harrison, John thought to himself..believe me, I am trying.

The second performance was infinitely better than the first. Paul did mic...even if he talked a little too much which only served to underline the unease he was feeling. Ringo beamed at everyone, obviously still three sheets to the wind, but his drumming was passable. George handled the whole lot with a boredom born of repetition. He was already starting to move past all this. Paul managed Yesterday this time, although his voice wasn't it's usual melodic self, but the crowd didn't care...they screamed anyway. John wondered why sometimes Paul didn't sing his original scrambled eggs words to it just to see if anyone noted. Then it was off the stage, back to the hotel, grab a meal (and maybe a girl or two?) then bed before off to the next city. Detroit beckoned.

"You're still mad at me, aren't ya?"  
From where he was lying on his bed, George glanced over at John. He didn't answer straight away...slowly pondered the question. It sometimes seemed to John that George pondered most things nowadays, subjecting every remark or incident to scrutiny.  
"Nah" George finally replied. "I'm not really mad at you, John. Just annoyed at the situation we're in..."  
"..which is my fault."  
George rubbed his nose with his finger...now there was a Paulism if ever there was one.  
"Well..it is and it isn't. Seems to me that you can't say what you want anymore. You have to think about it. Maybe best say nothing, eh?"  
John sighed. "Yeah...maybe you're right. Don't hold an opinion on anything."  
"How's Rings doing? Has he gone to bed?"  
"Last I saw he had a blonde on each arm, but after all the alcohol he's consumed I don't reckon their chances of getting laid."  
George hummed. "And Paul?"  
It was casually said, but John glanced over swiftly. There was an undercurrent there. He couldn't read it.  
"Same..but make it a brunette" John replied.  
George sighed. "He was bad today. Don't think I've ever seen him so stressed out before."  
John felt it. That twist of guilt. That accusation.  
He rolled onto his side and shut his eyes.

Ringo woke in the night. His head was thumping, a sledgehammer beating and beating. He groaned, sat up, wished he hadn't, lay back down, no, that was worse still...sat up and groped in the dark for the glass of water he'd left on his bedside cabinet....he'd foreseen a hangover. Tried to find it quietly, then realised Paul's bed was empty, the covers thrown back, rumpled, so he had been in it. Ringo took a gulp of the water and frowned. Then saw the thin sliver of light under the bathroom door. His frown receded, he nodded to himself, and lay back down. Thump. Thump. Thump. Shit...stupid headache. God..now he wanted a pee. Sighing, he sat up and swung his legs carefully out of bed trying not to jolt his head and make it all worse. On unsteady legs he made his way to the bathroom door and leaned on it. Not a sound. Not a murmur. Had Paul gone to sleep in there?  
He tapped on the door lightly, and heard movement.  
"Paul? Paul, you okay?"  
Some shuffling noise, then the sound of a tap being turned on.  
"Y..y..yeah..hang on"  
"Paul?" Ringo frowned. Normally the middle of the night found Paul fast asleep, particularly after a good shag. A bird? Paul had had a bird, hadn't he?  
The door opened, and Ringo blinked in the light. Paul's face looked blotchy and red and....  
"Hey, mate, you okay?" Ringo caught at his arm, catching hold of the pyjama sleeve. A spasm crossed Paul's face, then swiftly shut down.  
"Yeah..yeah..I can't..can't sleep, y'know." Paul turned away, screening his face from the light.  
Ringo shuffled his feet, not sure what to say. Paul wasn't an easy one to help.  
"I, er, I just need to take a piss, mate."  
Ringo indicated the brightly lit bathroom.  
"Oh..right, yeah, sorry..." Paul moved out of his way, passing a hair's breadth from Ringo. Ringo glanced at him in concern.  
"Is there..can I.." Ringo took a deep breath "Can I help?"  
Paul looked at him sadly. "No, not really" he breathed softly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe how many comments this has generated...thank you....please, though, remember it is FICTION!  
> This is a very short chapter...just keeping it moving. Thanks for reading.

Ringo sat up in bed and groaned. He sank his still thumping head into his hands and groaned. He peeled open an eye, realised it was bright sunshine, and groaned. He looked over at Paul's bed, saw it was empty, and automatically glanced at the bathroom door....ajar, so Paul must be up. He groaned again. They were off to Detroit, wherever that was. Had someone said about 300 miles or so heading east? Was that right? Oh God, thinking made his brain ache even more. Thinking. Maybe that's what John should have done before he opened his big mouth. He remembered the situation they were all in, and groaned.

He headed into the communal lounge to the smell of breakfast. Ugh! Didn't fancy food. There was George. eating for all four of them as usual. Did nothing destroy that lad's appetite? George looked up and grinned at him. Ringo felt reassured. If George could smile, then things couldn't be too bad.  
"So this press conference, John...." Brian's voice carried.  
"Fuck. Another? How many times have I gotta say.."  
"John, they might not ask you.."  
From behind a folded out newspaper Ringo heard a snort of derision from Paul.  
John glanced over in the direction of his song writing partner, considering, then let it go.  
Brian's voice was lowered "John, just..steer it in another direction. Play it off."  
John looked in Paul's direction again. "Maybe I should just give it to Paul to handle...after all, he doesn't fuck things up, does he?"  
From behind the newspaper Paul gave a one finger salute.  
"Morning!" Ringo thought he'd intervene swiftly. They all looked round at him, surprised. Well, all except George who'd already acknowledged him.  
"Morning, Richard" said Brian formally. Paul peered over his paper, and Ringo met his eyes. He knew what Paul was thinking...could read him so clearly. He was wondering did Ritchie remember the previous night. Ringo smiled at Paul, who gave a half-hearted one back, returning to his paper.  
John shuffled his feet, uncomfortable. He was beginning to feel trapped.

Detroit. Another interview. John sat at the table and stared defiantly at the many flashbulbs and faces and cameras and reporters with their same old same old questions, and  
"...so do you think you are perverting American youth with your religious comments....."  
Beside him, John felt Paul shift. Fuck them. Fuck them. Why didn't he just say what he thought. He opened his mouth, about to put his foot in it, then, suddenly, a hand was on his knee, squeezing...he became distracted, a warm feeling beginning in the pit of his stomach. In front of him, Paul leaned forward to speak into John's microphone...John's, mind, despite the fact he had at least half a dozen positioned in front of him. Paul's voice was soft, deflecting anger, and John could smell his hair. Christ..had this lad used coconut shampoo like forever? John breathed in the perfume, and remembered...cheap red wine, a streetlight shining through the window of the pensione, Paul beneath him, his hand on Paul's thigh, a tremor, a subtle shift, and....  
Paul was looking at him, a query in his eye. Obviously he had been asked a question only John could answer.  
There was a burst of laughter at John's confusion, but it wasn't antagonistic...it was humorous...they were sympathizing...Paul had done a good job of getting the press on their side. It's a good job, John mused, they didn't know what was going through my mind. He gazed into Paul's smiling hazel eyes and thought...yeah, it's a good job you didn't, too.

So...Detroit happened. No hiccups...well, discount the burning bonfires of records that Brian hoped they wouldn't see but they did, and the few empty seats which would never have happened before, but, hey...the mics worked and Paul wasn't stoned, and Ringo wasn't drunk, and George had at least half a smile on his face...all things considered it couldn't be too bad, and then it was the hotel, and food, and drink, and a bird with no name but fabulous tits and John was brushing his teeth and having a piss...not at the same time...when a thought came to him.  
Toothbrush in hand, he wandered into the communal lounge to see Ringo with his hand up some girl's skirt.  
"Seen Paul?" John asked, toothpaste dripping unheeded down his pyjama front. Ringo stopped what he was doing and frowned at John, thinking.  
"Er..last I saw him he was still at the bar"  
John raised an eyebrow. "Who with?"  
Ringo searched his memory. "Himself, I think."  
"Not a bird?"  
Ringo considered this. "No..not a bird."  
John disappeared to re-emerge a couple of minutes later barefoot but a hastily pulled on pair of trousers and a half buttoned shirt.  
"I'm just gonna go look for 'im."  
Ringo didn't bother to acknowledge...his mind was back on the girl.

Paul was sitting alone at the bar, smoking a cigarette, a half empty glass in front of him. He started as John took a stool by him, then gave a small smile.  
"Okay John?"  
"I could ask you the same. What y' doing down here on your own?"  
Paul shrugged, and stubbed out the cigarette. "Just not tired yet."  
"No bird?"  
Paul shrugged again, evading John's eyes. "No..didn't feel like it."  
John reeled back in pretend horror, his hand over his heart.  
"Didn't feel like it? Horny McCartney I'll fuck anything that moves and has tits doesn't feel like it? Are you ill?"  
Paul's mouth twitched. "Maybe I had other things on my mind."  
"Such as?"John leaned in conspiratorially to his bandmate.  
"Dunno. Just...didn't wanna. There's no reason too, is there, just cause you can, you don't have to, if you don't wanna."  
John looked at him in amusement "Can tell you've got A level English there, son. Very elucidite."  
Paul broke into a smile. "Yeah, well."  
John felt a surge of victory that he'd got Paul to smile. He looked fondly at him.  
"I came to get your horny backside up to bed anyway. George has a girl in his bed, and Ringo's making out on the sofa, an' I wanna sleep, so, please, pretty Paulie, come to bed."  
Paul's smile was now full-blown, and he slipped off the stool.  
"Come on then, old man...where are your shoes?" Paul looked down in astonishment, then took in John's half-dressed appearance "John? what the?..."  
John grinned sheepishly. "Ah, yeah, well, y'see, I was ready for bed but then realised I was missing a Macca, so I came down to look for him..and, look, I found him."  
Paul shook his head fondly and slung his arm round John's shoulders, steering him in the direction of the lifts. Paul began quietly singing a nonsense nursery rhyme, and before long John joined in. Heads turned to look at them as they entered the escalator. John gave a wicked grin and raised his arm in a Nazi salute....quickly Paul yanked it down, gave an apologetic smile at the other guests, and pressed the button for the eleventh floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On to Cleveland.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to keep this true to history but the story is FICTION!!!!!!

John and Paul arrived stumbling over each other as Paul still had his arm slung around John, and John was still singing nursery rhymes and trying to execute Nazi salutes and Paul, by now in a complete fit of giggles, was trying to prevent him from doing so and upsetting yet more of their fans.  
Ringo looked up at them both from his position on the sofa, the girl perched in his lap. He frowned, bewildered at their sudden intoxication.  
"Hey, y'all right, you two?"  
"Jus' fine, Bongo boy" John snorted. Beside him Paul erupted in another fit of laughter. Their press officer stuck his head round the door to survey them, assuming they must be drunk. But they weren't drunk. Or stoned. Though they both had the same light-headed feeling one often got after too much alcohol. Their laughter was a pent up release of all the tension they'd been through that day. They'd made it to the end of their third day of the tour and they were still in one piece. For a moment all the hatred was forgotten. John slid down to sit on the floor, and winked at the girl in Ringo's lap.  
"Y'all right, love? Any room for another?"  
"John!" Paul exclaimed, nudging him with the toe of his boot. John beamed a smile in Paul's direction.  
"It's okay, princess, don't worry. I'm coming to bed now."  
From out of the corner of his eye Paul saw the girl shoot a startled glance at them both. Fuck! Why couldn't Lennon mind his mouth for once?  
Trying to appear serious to make up for John's lack of propriety Paul said "Come on, John, you said you were tired. Let's get to bed."  
Too late Paul realised he'd left himself open.  
John gave an amused snort "Okay Macca, bed it is...come on darling" and grabbing the bassist round his waist propelled him in the direction of the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them with his foot.  
They tumbled onto the nearest bed in a tangle of arms and legs. Paul was the first to extricate himself, untangling his body from beneath John's, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled dark locks. Slowly he was coming down, but in a nice way, like champagne bubbles bursting and popping. He drew a deep breath.  
"Phew" he looked at John who'd stretched out on the bed by him, hands interlocked under his head, and was gazing at Paul expectantly as if awaiting the next part of the entertainment. They grinned at each other, for a moment completely relaxed. Paul bent down to drag his boots off, followed by black socks that he neatly placed inside each boot.  
John watched in amusement.  
"Dunno why y' do that, love. When they get washed you'll get anybodies back, not yer own. Just chuck 'em."  
Paul shrugged, slightly embarrassed. Tidying up after himself had become the norm after his mother's death, and it was something he did automatically. He stood up to remove his jacket, moving across the room to place it on a hanger. John remained on the bed watching Paul's actions, an eyebrow raised in fondness. Paul remained over by the wardrobe as he undid his tie, the material slipping through his long fingers, then made short work of unbuttoning his shirt. John nestled further down onto the bed, never taking his eyes off Paul. Truth be told he loved to watch Paul's meticulous nightly ritual, and had ever since they'd first shared a room in Hamburg. No matter how tired or rat-arsed Paul was, he always took care to undress properly, hang up clothes, brush teeth, wash face....there was something very reassuring about the whole routine that was settling for John.  
"Thought today went okay?" Paul said conversationally, moving over towards his own bed a couple of feet away from John's. John's eyes followed him. He wasn't really listening.  
"Hmm?" a question or an agreement.  
"Well, it could have been worse." Paul said optimistically, his hands moving down to unzip his flies. John unconsciously licked his lips.  
Paul turned his back to John in order to lean slightly against the bed as he removed his black suit trousers. John watched, glued to the sight, as first one then another long slim leg emerged. He had no memory of getting up from the bed. He only knew he was standing right behind Paul, and his arms shot round Paul's waist.  
Startled, Paul turned, his face flaming red, and pushed an astonished John backwards. John almost stumbled, but managed to keep his balance. What the hell had happened?  
Paul was ..was..fuming..his voice low but desperate "For fucksake. What the fuck are y'doing John? What the fuck?"  
John stood there, his mouth opening and closing. How had that happened? Had he really?...and why was Paul?..why?  
Paul obviously expected an answer.. He was standing there, just inches from John, clad in nothing but a pair of boxers, a quivering righteous mess of a man, his eyes black and glittering.  
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"  
John hated being accused. Hated being in the wrong. Hated being caught out. So he turned all his fury back on Paul, as if it had been his fault.  
"What am I doing?" John spat. He saw a flicker of doubt cross Paul's face.  
"What am I doing? You're the one who chose to do a striptease in front of me. Fucking tart!"  
John saw flickers of emotions crossing Paul's face, but all he said was "I was getting ready for bed, John."  
John was swift to respond. "Yeah..most of us chuck our clothes off, but to you it's a performance, innit. You'll get your come uppance someday, acting like that."  
Paul's face registered only bewilderment. "I..I didn't..I wasn't.."  
"Never are, are you, son. Never your fault, is it."  
Now Paul was lost. He shook his head. "What the fuck are you on about?"  
Inside John screamed silently. He knew what he was on about. Why didn't Paul get him? All those nights together...and Paul's hand on his knee today...and..  
John saw realisation dawn on Paul's face. He saw Paul swallow, his Adam's apple bob up and down. He was so close he could smell Paul's cologne and the body odour that belonged to Paul...just Paul...John ached so much he could cry.  
"We said..." Paul's voice was detached. John didn't want to hear this.  
He jumped in quickly. "Did we? An executive decision, was it?" From the corner of his eye he saw Paul shift nervously.  
"John...we couldn't..it..it just wasn't possible. The risk...you know that.."  
"Says who?" John was staring at Paul's chest. He couldn't look him in the eye. He saw Paul's head shoot up.  
"We...we both said..."  
"Did we? Did I? Or did you steamroller me into it?"  
He sensed Paul set up barriers around himself. It reminded him of the Disney film where a forest of thorns suddenly appears around Sleeping Beauty's castle. He could almost hear them springing into place. He hit back the only way he knew how.  
"It doesn't matter anyway, does it? You were only a fuck."  
Shit! He hadn't meant to say that. He saw the hurt flash across Paul's face, then he was gone.

Ringo looked up in astonishment for the second time in just a few minutes as Paul strode into the communal lounge wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, his face like thunder.  
The girl on his lap gave a gasp of surprise. From out of the bedroom came John's roar of anger.  
"Go on then, walk away. It's your answer to everything, isn't it, McCartney. Fuck off then. Fuck off, see if I care." A table lamp came hurtling out the room following Paul's exit, shattering against the coffee table, rolling off to settle against a chair. Dumbfounded, Ringo and the girl could only watch. Paul never blinked.  
"Ringo, you okay to share with John tonight? Ta. I need to get to bed." Only Ringo, who knew Paul well enough by now, could hear the slight break in Paul's voice before he disappeared into George's room.  
Hearing the commotion, and the door being opened without warning, George frowned over at Paul as he entered the room. Paul didn't even acknowledge George, just fixed his eyes firmly ahead, ignoring the girl who was desperately trying to drag her clothes on. George's gaze diverted to the lounge, then back to Paul who was pulling back the covers on the other bed. George patted the girl's knee.."Er...shut the door on your way out, would ya?" Anxious to be gone, she nodded furiously.

"Paul?" George spoke to Paul's unresponsive back.  
"What?" Paul almost spat the word out. Last thing he wanted was a discussion. George grit his teeth. No matter how big a prick Paul could be at times, nonetheless this was his old friend, his big brother, who'd always looked out for him.  
"Are you okay? Is everything alright?"  
There was a pause, then Paul's voice quietly replied "Not really."  
Then he drew the blankets closer around himself, effectively deflecting any more questions.

14th August 1966

John and Paul managed to avoid each other completely on the journey to Cleveland. Paul was bright, smiling, chatting with everyone, John was morose, silent, not talking at all.  
"What happened?" Ringo whispered to George.  
George shrugged. "Dunno. Thought maybe you could tell me?"  
Tony, their press officer, was trying to walk a fine line between McCartney's non-stop babbling and John's moodiness. And they expected him to make something of this? Brian observed the two song writers quietly. Finally, he drew Paul on to one side. Paul because, although he could be bloody difficult at times, was not as difficult as John.  
With John the knife had a sharp edge, with Paul it was covered in velvet, even if it still dug deep.  
"What's wrong?"  
Paul looked innocently at Brian. "Pardon?"  
Brian nodded over to where John sat, his legs stuck out rebelliously in front of him, his whole attitude one of defiance.  
"You...John....whatever it is, sort it, Paul. We don't need you two at odds as well."  
Brian saw Paul's face harden. He pulled his arm free of Brian's grasp.  
"Well, excuse me!" he hissed. "I didn't get us into this shit, and I'm not the one in a mood, so go talk to the one that's causing all this."  
He'd gone, a tall, upright figure moving through the crowds, offering a smile here, a handshake there.  
Brian sighed. He moved over to sit by John. John's eyes were firmly fixed on the toes of his boots.  
"John?"  
"Fuck off, Eppy."  
A good start. Brian drew a deep breath.  
"John, you and Paul.."  
"He's a prick, d'you know that? A fucking prick. An' 'cos he's pretty he gets away with fucking murder. Fuck him."  
Brian shook his head. "Do I take it you two have had a disagreement?"  
John's mouth twitched. Trust Eppy to put it properly.  
He looked at him from under his lashes. "Guess you could say that, sonny Jim."  
"Well, John, for the sake of the group and the sanity of all, can you sort it? We really have enough on our plates as it is."  
John cocked an eyebrow at Brian.  
"I guess we could..if Paul will."  
Pleasantly surprised, Brian smiled, relieved. "Good...that would be..good, John. Thank you."

When Brian moved off, John surreptitiously watched Paul doing the rounds. Mr. fucking P.R. John thought. Still...when they were starting out they'd been glad of that natural ability Paul had to talk eskimos into buying ice cubes...luck of the bleeding Irish, eh? Gift of the gab an' all that. A spasm crossed John's face. He'd hurt Paul last night. He knew he had. But he couldn't find it in him to apologise because that was something John Winston Lennon didn't do. He stared morosely at the toes of his boots as if they'd give him all of life's answers such as why was he such a prick sometimes and why couldn't he keep his bloody mouth shut when he became aware of an identical pair of boots in his peripheral vision.  
He followed the long long legs up, his eyes halting when he reached the top. Paul gave a wry grimace.  
"Brian says we should talk?"  
John didn't shift. His voice was nasal. "Who to? Each other? Other people? There's nothing to say, is there, Paul." He dragged out the syllable of Paul's name.  
Paul's feet shuffled awkwardly. Then he shrugged.  
"Can't say I didn't try" he muttered.  
John mentally kicked himself again. Why? Why the fuck do I keep pushing him away? What's wrong with me?

Cleveland Stadium was chaos. Thousands of youngsters milling around and screaming. To make it safer for the group they'd been provided with a trailer as a dressing room, so they were near to the stage. From the shelter of it they could hear the warm up groups. Well..just about. The screams for the Beatles were drowning out everything. Ringo was shoved up against the trailer wall, trying to listen. When George frowned at him he simply explained "I like the Ronettes."  
George just shrugged."Y' can't hear 'em anyway."  
From the tiny windows they could see a brilliant red sunset streaking the sky.  
"Five minutes, boys."  
Jitters. They all had jitters. They'd heard the phones ring. Brian thought they hadn't but they had. Death threats over the phones. That meant people knew where they were staying. Fuck...they were the Beatles, for heaven's sake. Everyone knew where they were staying. Anyone wanting to annihilate them probably knew their itinerary better than they did. Half the time they didn't even know where they were. Paul checked his hair. Ringo rubbed his hands together. John grumbled. George just gave a deep sigh. Their new L.P. was about to be released, and they were tied to playing stuff they'd been performing for years, all because they couldn't create their new music on stage.  
"You're on!"  
Paul led the way, first out, waving and smiling. The screams were deafening. They should be used to them by now but in America everything seemed magnified.  
They went straight in to Rock and Roll Music....Ringo felt he was drumming faster. Did they speed up each time they played? He vaguely thought to himself that at this rate they'd be exiting the stage before they even started if the tempo of each performance increased.  
They were into their fourth song, Day Tripper, when it happened. Later Paul would relate it to looking like a section of a glacier falling off.....thousands..not just a few..not just a hundred....thousands of fans were over the barriers, heading across the grass towards them. The security were no match...they disappeared under the trampling feet as if they were nothing but litter. Paul looked out in shock, realising nothing and no one was going to stop them. Around him the music was still playing...shit, he was still playing. He stopped, abruptly yanking his guitar over his head...they'd nearly reached the stage...shit...they could...bloody hell, what if...a thousand thoughts crashed incoherently through his brain. Someone was calling his name...a voice he recognised, despite the deafening clamour. Mouths open, screaming.  
"Paul, get off.." Brian..no, Mal. Both of them, calling Paul's name.  
Paul put his bass down on the stage and grabbed john by the arm. John went to shake him off, then saw the panic in Paul's eyes.  
"John..for Chrissake..come on.." He pulled the guitar over John's head, passed it to a pair of hands..he had no idea who...and keeping tight hold of John's sleeve towed him off stage and into the relative safety of the trailer.  
The trailer rocked drunkenly as bodies hit it. Ringo was cowering in a corner muttering "Fuck, fuck, fuck."  
Paul wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and glanced at John, who looked lost.  
"Hey..you okay?"  
John's eyes swivelled to meet Paul's. A sudden surge against the trailer threw them into one another's arms. John grinned evilly, and wiggled his eyebrows at Paul.  
"Feisty are we tonight, eh?"  
Paul affectionately batted him round the head.  
George watched this interaction with a mystified frown. He'd never, ever, understand them.  
The trailer began to groan. A face, mouth wide open and screaming, appeared at one of the windows.  
"What the fuck?" George muttered. "This is mad."  
He looked at Paul. "Tell me you still want to go out on the road after this, mate, an' I'll tell you y' need your brains looking at."  
John shot George daggers. "Leave him outta it. This is my fault, not Paul's."  
Ooh. George subsided back into the corner.

Thirty minutes later, peace restored, they were able to continue. So what if they played too fast? This..this was just..crazy.  
Tomorrow? Washington D.C. Sharing the mic with John, so close he could feel hot breath on his face, Paul smiled. An answering smile was returned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next few days

15th August 1966

George was scrabbling round for his things...one aspect of touring he absolutely detested was the continual, seemingly never-ending packing. Where the fuck had all his socks gone? He'd only half unpacked anyway in order to save time. He looked suspiciously across at Ringo who was sitting, ready to depart, a satisfied if slightly guilty look on his face, smoking an early morning ciggie. George frowned.  
"Here, Rings..you've not seen any of me socks, have y'?"  
Ringo started guiltily. "Socks? Er, no, mate. 'ave y' asked Paul? He was in here a bit ago looking for socks.."  
George slammed his suitcase shut in annoyance. "If he's nicked 'em I'll...." George disappeared out the room. Ringo winced, and patted his own suitcase.  
"Of course, I might have gained a few too" he muttered quietly to himself.

Without preamble, George threw the door open into Paul and John's room. They were both in the process of getting dressed and looked round, startled.   
George advanced menacingly across the room to where Paul was standing, his hand outstretched.  
"Right...fuck you, McCartney...just give me me socks back."  
Paul's jaw dropped open in astonishment. "Wh..what?"  
"Me socks. Give 'em back..now..or I'll...I'll..." George was quivering with rage, mainly induced by his dislike of packing.  
Paul shook his head "I don't..I don't have your socks, George."  
John folded his arms across his chest and prepared to take a ringside view of the altercation, a smile flickering across his face. He loved it when the two youngest quarrelled.  
George advanced further, and shoved Paul in the chest. He stumbled backwards slightly, catching his balance against his bed.  
"Yes you do. Ringo said."  
Paul was trying, he really was trying, to keep his patience. "Ringo said? But..I.."  
George was now chest to chest with him. "Give, McCartney. Now. I wanna finish my fucking packing and you.." he prodded a finger into Paul's chest "are stopping me."  
John unfolded his arms. "Eh..eh..stop that."  
They both looked round in surprise.  
"If Paul says he hasn't got he hasn't got..okay?"  
"But Ringo said he'd been in our room looking for socks. Only a few minutes ago."  
Paul frowned, then realisation dawned. "No..I went to have a look at your clock...our's has stopped." He indicated the bedside object with a wave of his hand.  
George coloured, then clenched his jaw.  
"Ringo...I'm gonna fucking kill him. I bet he's got them...RINGO?...." he disappeared back out the door.  
Paul and John exchanged a glance, then both burst into laughter.  
To Brian and the rest of the entourage waiting in the communal lounge it was a welcome sound.  
John slung his arm around Paul as they exited the room, still chuckling.  
"It's a good job you've got a sense of humour son."

They flew to Washington D.C. and were greeted by fans on arrival. They breathed a sigh of relief that the majority of the fans seemed happy to see them, and tried to turn a blind eye to the banners which declared otherwise. The show that night was to be held at the D.C. Stadium, and on their arrival they were alarmed to see Ku Klux Klan protesting outside, looking somewhat imposing and sinister in their flowing robes of red, white and green. They were managing to garner a lot of publicity, particularly as the eloquently spoken Imperial Grand Wizard was there.   
"Fuck...they're not gonna let this rest, are they?" John muttered under his breath. Paul patted his arm reassuringly, but he too was daunted by the spectacle. When they were ensconced in their hotel rooms it was easy to forget this controversy was raging, but once outside it kept being flung in their faces.  
"How often have I got to apologise?"  
Brian looked sadly at John "As many times as it takes to keep you and everyone else safe, John."  
John set his lips in a thin line. He didn't need reminding that he'd put them all at risk. Beside him Paul shifted in his seat. Their eyes met, Paul's wide under his long dark fringe.  
John swallowed. Heaven forbid anything should happen to him.

"They have agreed that we can use the Senators Locker Room for the press conference" Brian informed them. "Tony has already gone to try and set some organisation in place."  
Brian heard them all groan.  
"Same questions, I'll bet" Ringo said.  
"Should just send John in...he's the only one they want to talk to." George muttered.  
John shot him a look to kill.  
"Well?!" George retaliated.  
Paul moved swiftly between them. "Maybe, maybe, but shouldn't we show a united front? You could...I dunno...talk about your sitar lessons?"  
George's scowl deepened. "Oh, yeah, they're really gonna want to know about MY music when you two are there. Anyway...why are you two so pally pally all of a sudden? You wouldn't even sleep in the same room as John two nights ago."  
"Now, now, boys, let's not bicker" Brian chided gently. He could feel the atmosphere fizzing between the four young men. The tension was getting to all of them.  
Beside him, Paul felt John tense at George's words. He laid a cautionary hand on John's arm, and shook his head slightly.  
"I mean.." shot George " if you two wanna get off with each other.."  
Paul's face flamed red, and John propelled himself in the direction of George. It was Mal's arm that caught him.   
John was furious "What the fuck? What the fuck are you on about?"  
Paul was there, calming "John, ssh, let it go..please. Don't make a scene."  
"Have you said something?" John suddenly rounded on Paul. Instinctively, Paul took a step back, shaking his head.  
"Well then " John started on George again "Explain yourself."  
George heaved a sigh, and headed for the exit. "I shouldn't have to explain. It's blatantly obvious. Now excuse me...I've had enough of this menagerie."  
John was fuming and spitting and bristling.  
Paul just sank into the nearest chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him.  
Brian heaved an enormous sigh.

The first question. John had never heard anything so stupid in all his life. 'Was the Jesus statement purposely made in order to start up a controversy and publicity just before the tour?'  
John looked at the questioner in disgust. Beside him he felt Paul wriggle uncomfortably in his seat, probably worried about what might come out of John's mouth.  
"Well...that is one of the most stupid versions of it.." he heard Paul clear his throat, warning.."'cos that...I mean, we don't need publicity..not like that."  
Tony Barrow leaned over to speak into the microphone. "Can I add to that? That article was originally published in England last March...."  
John's attention was drawn to Paul. He could feel Paul's eyes upon him. He turned to look at his song-writing partner and received a full-blown smile. John felt a small part of him respond.

Thirty two thousand screaming youngsters. Or just a few more than that. That was the figures thrown at them. This time security seemed to have everything in place, and they were able to use some of the locker rooms as their changing rooms. On the whole they were far more relaxed than they had been. It seemed that here, apart from the Ku Klux Klan, the controversy hadn't had quite as much impact as it had in the Bible Belt.  
"Remind me to go out shaking a rosary" John whispered to Paul.  
Paul grinned back "Ah, but then you'll upset all the protestants."  
"Would I upset you?"  
"Me? No...I'm a good Catholic boy."  
John smirked.

Straight after the show they boarded the tour bus to head for Philadelphia. They were still on a high from the performance, and also relief that it seemed to have gone off okay. As the adrenalin slowed they began to slump. Paul sought a seat by George. He'd been upset by George's behaviour earlier, and wanted to try and set things straight between them. He really didn't like being at odds with George. After all, in Beatle land, George was his baby brother, and Paul still felt a slight pang of guilt when he thought about how often he declined George's company in favour of John's...it was just that....Paul chewed his lip unconsciously...John seemed to outshine everyone else with his presence, and Paul couldn't help but be drawn to him.  
Paul dropped heavily into the seat, and George looked up from the sandwich he was munching, a frown on his face.  
Paul flashed a smile. "Y' okay?"  
George suspiciously scrutinised him, a pregnant silence filling the air.   
Paul's smile faltered.  
"What d'you want, Paul?"  
Now it was Paul's turn to frown. "Want? I don't want anything..just wondered..how y' doing? That's all."  
George paused to swallow, his eyes never leaving Paul's face.   
Finally "You're the worst fucking actor ever, d'you know that?"  
Ouch. That hurt. The embarrassment of having had his two solo scenes deleted from each Beatles film still rubbed a sore spot with Paul, no matter how much he tried to laugh it off. His eyes flickered away from George, considering.   
Mentally, George kicked himself. That had been below the belt, even for him. Okay...hand of peace.  
"Well...I'm still alive and in one piece, so are you, and John and Ringo, so I guess that counts for something."  
Paul nodded, relief flooding his face.  
"Yeah..it's..each time I go on stage I keep imagining hundreds of guns pointing at me."  
George snorted, and took another bite of his sandwich. "Not likely to be pointing at you..more likely John. He's such an arse-hole, landing us in this shit."  
Paul felt the need to defend. "Yes, but..he didn't mean to. He was only saying.."  
"Come off it, Paul. You're at the sharp end of his tongue often enough to know that he doesn't fucking think for one second before he opens his mouth. Just says and does what he wants. An' damn the consequences."  
Paul sighed, and looked out of the window at the landscape that was fleeting by.  
"You're always gonna stick up for him, aren't you, though" George said softly.   
Paul rubbed his breath off the window, and turned to look questioningly at George.  
"What d'you mean?"  
"If he shat all over you you'd forgive him."  
Paul was dumbstruck for a moment. "I..I..."  
George pushed himself up off the seat. "I need a drink. Then..I'm gonna try and sleep...not an easy thing to do. Excuse me please, Paul."  
Paul watched George's swaying progress down the centre aisle of the Greyhound tour bus, his mind in confusion as he tried to analyse the conversation he'd just had with him.

The bus plowed on through the night. Paul sat and chewed his middle finger, ruminating. Next moment a body appeared beside him, a pair of blue eyes questioning.  
"Y'all right there, mate?"  
Ritchie. Paul beamed at him. "Yeah..fine. You?"  
Paul always felt that Ringo saw more than he ever let on. Perched high above them on his drum kit he would observe the interaction of the three other musicians who dominated the stage. It was as if he observed and absorbed. That same pair of eyes was observing him now. Paul shifted under their scrutiny, but Ringo's tone was light.  
"Not asleep then?"  
Paul shrugged. "Too light. Too noisy. I need a bed. I don't do well under these circumstances."  
"I'd have thought after Hamburg you could sleep anywhere."  
Paul snorted. "Spent most o' me time there in a daze...never 'ad enough sleep. Dunno how I functioned. Dunno what I got up to most of the time."  
Ringo held out a ciggie and Paul shook his head. "Trying to cut down a bit, y'know."  
Ringo looked at him in astonishment. "Why?"  
Paul crossed his legs, leaning back into the coach seat. "There's these reports starting to come out saying they're no good for you..that they might even cause cancer."  
Ringo looked at the cigarette he held between his fingers, looked at Paul, and with a regretful smile slid it back into it's packet.  
"Figures, dunnit?"  
Paul looked at him questioningly.  
"That something you enjoy isn't good for you."  
"Yeah. Yeah, guess so."  
Ringo's eyes ran over Paul's slouching figure. "What's up, mate?"  
Paul looked up, startled. "Up?" he queried.  
Ringo nodded emphatically. "Yeah, up? Where's our little ray of sunshine gone?"  
Paul couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm not always a ray of sunshine, y'know. I can be a prick sometimes. I know I can. I don't need the others to tell me that."  
Ringo settled further down into the seat, and forgetting his decision of a moment earlier extracted a cigarette and lit it.  
"Maybe you can, Paul, but to me...well, to me you've always done what's right. I never forget, when I first joined the group you were always the one who would check I was okay and not feeling left out. I've never forgot that."  
Paul blushed, not used to such a direct compliment, and was lost for words.  
Ritchie took a drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke out, and continued "I'd like to think I could pay that back sometime, y'know? If you want someone to talk to, like. I'm a good listener, and I don't blab either."  
Unsure how to react, Paul gave a tentative smile and a slight nod. Without warning, Paul felt a lump the size of a small egg in his throat. He tried to swallow, but it wouldn't go down. He blinked. Why the fuck were his eyes watering? Must be the smoke. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, conscious all the while of Ringo next to him, watching, silent.  
"Sorry" his voice came out strangled "I think I must be tired."  
Ringo was solid next to him, dependable. "Of course you are. Try and sleep, eh? I'll stay by you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philadelphia and beyond..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to do some research for this and it seems as if they travelled from Washington D.C. to Philadelphia on the tour bus, then from Philadelphia straight to Toronto by plane that night, so I am assuming no hotels were involved. Please remember, if I am incorrect, that this is FICTION

16th August 1966

Through a haze of sleep Paul caught snatches of words, some murmured, some clear.  
"...how..nm..mmmum..lo..."  
"..asleep.." That was Ringo's voice close to him.  
"..very...no....mmm...sl....."  
"A couple of hours...doesn't...travelling...prefers a bed...surprised.."  
Paul's eyes felt gritty and were tightly glued shut. He could still feel the motion of the bus. Still travelling then. Half of his brain was on overdrive, the other half completely shut down.  
"..num...sh...in..hours..hol.....accident...mmm...late.."  
Paul sensed he was being looked at.  
"Leave him..needs a bit of kip..mmmm...soon enough.."

"Philadelphia. Everyone off."  
The call came sounding very cheerful. Paul stretched, aware of a crick in his neck, and turned to find Ringo still by him.  
Ringo gave a broad smile "Okay? Sleep alright?"  
Paul screwed his face up. Truth be told he felt like crap, eyes still gritty and tired, body not properly rested, needed the loo, needed a drink, his mouth dry. How the fuck did Ringo manage to look so fresh?  
"Where are we?"  
"Philadelphia, son."  
Paul yawned. "I know that, I mean..."  
"J.F.K. Stadium...they're supposed to have everything laid on. Hope to God they do."  
Paul squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "God, I need a piss."  
"Toilet's free" said Ringo indicating the on-board convenience.  
Paul winced. "No thanks..I'd rather hang on."  
"Tie a knot in it, eh?" Ringo joked.  
"Tie a knot in what?" John was there, looking as if someone had just dragged him through a hedge backwards.  
"Tie a knot in Paul's willy"  
"Now why would anyone want to do that...scar the poor boy for life."  
Paul's mouth twitched...being teased this early in a morning was just a bit too much. He briefly closed his eyes again while listening to the good-natured bantering going on around him. Then the movement started, the queue for exiting the vehicle, the gathering of personal belongings, Brian fussing around, still looking immaculate...and probably not slept either. It was a relief to the group and it's entourage to find showers, toilets, and food, and somewhere to chill out. John shoved a couple of chairs together to form a makeshift bed, and within minutes was catching up on his kip.  
George walked past, stuffing his mouth with a hotdog covered in ketchup.   
"Are we marooned here all day?" he queried. Paul glanced sideways at him. He wasn't sure how to approach his younger friend after yesterday evening's conversation.  
"Could think of worse places to be. At least we're safe" Neil pointed out. He was hauling in some of their equipment. They still managed to do the tour with no more than three guitars, a keyboard and a set of drums. Nowhere near enough equipment to produce the kind of music they were now making. It was obvious by George's body language that he wasn't happy. Paul and Ringo exchanged a glance.  
"And there's food and showers and tellies to watch." Ringo added. George shrugged, and moved away.   
"Some people are very difficult to please" Ringo muttered.  
Paul leapt to George's defence. "He just feels we can't perform as we should be..y'know, our new album an'..that..." Paul trailed off.  
"It's not that, Paul..he just doesn't wanna be here at all. Told me the other night he'd considered quitting the group."  
It was like a bucket of ice being thrown over Paul. His eyes widened.  
"He..he said what?"  
Ringo nodded sagely. "Leaving. Quitting. Doesn't wanna do this anymore."  
"What? Do what? The touring?"   
"I think it's more than that, son. I mean.." Ringo paused, unsure how to continue without hurting Paul "..y'know..you and John..you're a bit difficult to be around when it comes to George writing songs too. He probably wants his own space."  
Jesus Christ! This was a revelation to Paul. He sat down, stunned. Ringo looked at him sympathetically. He knew how much the group meant to Paul. Being a Beatle was his life. It wasn't particularly George's anymore.  
Ringo tried to smooth it over. "I'm sure he won't though, Paul. It's probably just..well..this tour. It's not helped, has it, all this Jesus stuff, and John. He's a loose cannon if ever there was one."  
Paul looked at his hands detachedly. Why were they shaking? Inside, he felt as if everything was crumbling, dissolving, collapsing around him...  
"Paul?"  
He looked up, speechless, at Ringo. Ringo felt his dismay. He reached down and tugged at Paul's arm.  
"Come on..let's go find some breakfast. See if they can lay on a decent cup of tea. America might have a lot going for it, but they can't do tea."

John seemed to kip most of the day away. George lost himself up a corner with his guitar. Paul found himself mainly hanging out with Ringo. But at the back of his mind, churning round and round, was the bombshell Ringo had dropped about George wanting to leave the group. Paul had been aware of George's discontentment for some time, but not for one moment had he ever thought it would go that far. Half of him wanted to go and talk to George about it, but the other half of him didn't want to acknowledge a problem. Acknowledging it made it seem all to real. Ringo could sense Paul's distraction, and did his best to keep the younger man occupied. He knew from past experience how Paul tended to overthink things. Up another corner John, having woken, began entertaining fellow travellers with his mimicry of famous people...often far too close to the wire. Ringo shifted uncomfortably. One day John Lennon was really going to put his foot in it...if he hadn't already. Beside him, he could sense Paul watching also. He turned to look at the dark-haired man.  
"How the heck did you two ever become friends?"  
Paul turned to him, surprised. "What? What d'you mean?"  
Ringo indicated John's funny, if somewhat cruel, antics. "This..y'know..like, doing this? He doesn't really care who he upsets, does he? It's just..you wouldn't do that."  
Paul shrugged. "It's just a show. He's not really like that..not inside..it's..it's just that's the Lennon he wants people to see..like a cover-up."  
They exchanged a glance.  
"He's not like that all the time" Paul added.  
"I know, son, I know, but put him in front of an audience and it's like he ...he.." Ringo searched for the word.  
"Transmogriphies..." Paul supplied.  
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.  
"Yeah..that's it. It's just that" Richie continued as they sobered down " it always seemed to me you were two opposites."  
"Well" Paul sighed "You know what they say about opposites. Mind you, if I get through my life without John giving me an ulcer it'll be a miracle."  
Paul glanced over to where George was sitting, a morose expression on his face, strumming his guitar quietly. Ringo followed Paul's stare.  
"Should I talk to him?" Paul queried, licking his lips which suddenly felt dry.  
Ringo shifted his stance. "Nah..leave him. He's in a bit of a mood about all this anyway. I mean..it's all knackering, innit? Not just the whole Jesus thing, but the tour..the travelling..dunno 'bout you but I'm pretty much done in and we ain't halfway through yet."  
Paul rubbed his hand over his face. He still felt like crap. Hope to God Mal had some pretty good magic pills stashed away to give him the energy to perform.  
He mumbled an incomprehensible reply to Ringo, who glanced at him in concern.  
From where John had been entertaining a crowd of touring friends up the corner of their allotted lounge, Paul and Ringo saw his gaze sweep across the room to them both, his face scrunching up as he peered shortsightedly to ensure he had seen correctly. Fortunately for John Paul's bright canary yellow jacket proved somewhat unmissable, even if by now it was badly wrinkled. They saw John say something to the folks he'd been entertaining, then next moment he was striding purposefully towards them. Beside him, Ringo felt Paul sit up a little straighter in anticipation.  
"'ello 'ello 'ello wot 'ave we 'ere then? Loitering, are we? With intent, I 'ope?"   
Paul brightened up immediately, Ringo couldn't help but notice.  
"Loitering indeed sir....waiting to perform. Though I see you've been doing your own one man show over there" Ringo indicated the corner John had just appeared from.  
John's glance fell on Paul, who so far had not said anything. Paul locked eyes with John, and for a second Ringo felt excluded. It was as if everyone else in the room ceased to exist.  
Then Paul's gaze dropped to his feet, and John stirred.  
"Have you eaten?" he asked Paul.  
Paul considered the question. Had he? He looked dumbly at Ringo to supply the answer.  
Ringo shrugged. "He's had a cup of tea so far, that's all."  
John's intense stare....Ringo realised this was because he didn't have his glasses on....switched to Ritchie.  
"Looking after him, are we?"   
Whoops! Was that meant to sound as sarcastic as it appeared?   
Ringo shrugged. "He's a bit knackered..not quite with it."  
Paul was still silent, half his brain still wired, the other half on shutdown.  
"Is that so?" John switched his attention back to Paul. "Come on, dearie, I know how to fix you." He pulled Paul up onto his feet, and herded him off in the direction of the food table, except, watching, Ringo saw them divert towards the changing rooms. A slight frown creased his face, then next moment Mal was asking him something about his drum kit.

Ringo sat there for a while in a half daze, smoking, his thoughts ruminating over many subjects, John and Paul included. As a background accompaniment he could hear the chatter of the people he'd travelled with. Fortunately they all got on very well together. He debated within himself the fact that it must be difficult to be a warm-up act to the Beatles...not something he would have liked to try doing. He became conscious of someone sitting down by him and lighting a cigarette. George. He turned to smile beatifically at the youngest Beatle.  
"Hey, y'all right there Georgie?"  
George still looked glum. Oh oh. This was going to be an interesting conversation then.  
George took a deep drag of his cigarette and glanced round the room.  
"Where are their majesties then?"  
Ringo frowned. "John and Paul?"  
"Who else?"  
Ringo shrugged. "Dunno. They headed off in that direction a bit ago." Ringo waved an arm towards the locker rooms.  
"Hmph."  
"Problem?"  
George sighed. "Not really. I'm bored, is all. Wondered if Paul..." he stopped, shaking his head. "Never mind."  
Ringo cocked one eyebrow in George's direction. "What?"  
"I had..had something I wanted to ask Paul about...I was just fiddling about on me guitar, an' thought..." George shrugged, off hand "It's not important..."  
"I'm sure he'll be back soon."  
"Yeah, but he's with John, in 'e? He's not gonna be interested...particularly if John's there!" George spat out John's name with vehemence.  
"Not the flavour of the month, eh?" Ringo observed casually.  
Whoa. Pot boileth over. "The fuck he is. When he's around Paul only has eyes for him. John only has to click his fingers.." Ringo's eyes widened at this in astonishment. He'd never particularly noticed Paul's obeisance to John...as far as Ringo could see, Paul had his own life " and Paul goes running. I could be in the middle of a sentence to him, an' suddenly I don't exist any more. It hadn't used to be like that, y'know, when we were young. Before he met John. After his mum died he was always round our house. We played together lots, helped each other out..." Ringo calmly carried on smoking as George ranted. Was there a little possessiveness in here he could see? A little bit of jealousy? The trouble was the four of them were thrown so tightly together, and the security on this tour had been phenomenal...their manager was leaving nothing to chance.  
After a few more sentences, George fizzled out, like a firework that had exhausted itself. Ringo carried on smoking, and didn't say anything. Oh oh. Here were John and Paul. One could almost sense the heightened buzz as they entered the room. What was it about them? They were both smiling, and looked flushed. Hmm. Probably shared a joint, Ringo mused. Beside him he could feel George squirm in annoyance.  
"Well, why doncha go ask Paul now?" Ringo suggested.   
George seemed to shrink into himself. "Nah..can't be bothered. Anyway, he's got John."

J.F.K. Stadium had the capacity for sixty thousand, but only twenty thousand tickets had been sold. They'd lumped all the fans together in one area of the stadium, and they seemed a long, long way off to the boys as they climbed onto the makeshift stage. Lightning was flickering across the sky. The storm had begun as the show had opened at eight o' clock, and was slowly gathering in it's intensity. Of course there'd been lots of jokes about God warming up to strike down John Lennon, but so far the storm hadn't broken, although the heat was oppressive. The rolls of thunder could be heard between the music, and sometimes even over the music. John and Paul glanced nervously at each other...neither of them were very keen on storms..add that to the electrical equipment they were playing, the risk of a sudden downpour, and the threat of extermination by some bigot, and they were well on edge. Their set list, of which by now they were getting heartily bored...although the advantage of knowing it so well was that they could play and sing whatever happened....was sped up slightly. They wanted to be through and off before the storm broke. Behind scenes their tour bus was waiting to take them to Philadelphia Airport immediately after the show to catch a plane for Toronto. The next day would be their only appearance in Canada on this tour. Another night of travelling. Another night of broken sleep and running on pills to keep you going. A flash of lightning and a loud thunderclap coincided with the end of their set. They bowed, and fled off the stage as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.

In the darkness they ran across the tarmac to the waiting plane, still running on adrenalin from the performance. Paul collapsed into a seat near a window, and Ringo moved to sit by him. Another figure was at his heels.  
"Eye, mate, shift over...find another would y', this ones taken" Ringo looked up at John's grinning face, and took in Paul who was flushed and rather giggly. They both had a definite smell woven about their persons. Where did they manage to secure all this weed from? And how did they do it without getting noticed? Ringo obligingly, with just a small grumble, pushed himself back up. Neil was sitting by George. Oh well...he shrugged nonchalantly..he'd find someone to sit by.  
To begin with the aircraft was full of noisy chatter, but, one by one, like lights going out, the conversation died down. The odd snore would cause someone to grumble, but otherwise it was peaceful. Ringo got up to use the loo, and as he passed John and Paul he couldn't help but notice they were both fast asleep, John his head thrown back and mouth open, Paul tucked into his side, dark head on John's shoulder. A pang shot through Ringo. They just looked so..right...together.

They landed in the early hours of the morning and were taken straight to the hotel they would be staying at that night. Hardly bothering to wash and change they collapsed into the bed most convenient to them at the time, not even thinking what the next day would bring.

17th August 1966

Their sixth tour date was at Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto. Two shows, one at four and one at eight. To their great relief they would be staying there that night.  
As far as press conferences went, this one was really quite tame. John began to have the assumption that the further north one went in America the less the concern about the Jesus remark there was. The whole feel of Canada was more relaxed. 

After the second show they returned to the hotel ready to chill out. Drinks and meals were procured. Paul seemed to have found a room with a piano he could play on, and was busy belting out a boogie woogie. John yelled "Sharrup" to him, but Paul didn't take offence, and neither did John mean it. He found it amusing that his band mate, who'd just performed two shows, still had it in him to want to play. George secured himself a girl, and with a satisfied smile took her off to his room. Ringo finally acknowledged the little red head who'd been hanging round his neck most of the night and with her on one arm and a bottle in the other hand sought seclusion before the alcohol kicked in too much.  
Paul progressed from boogie woogie to blues to ballads as the clock hands turned into the early hours of the morning of the 18th. John, his breath smelling of whisky fumes, leaned across the back of Paul, watching Paul's long fingers teasing out melodies that lurked somewhere in John's mind....... memories of songs played on the radio when he was a small child. He never lost his awe at how Paul could just do that...trip tunes out of his head and bring them alive on the piano in a never ending medley of sentimentality. He breathed into the dark hair "Where are we going, love?"  
Without losing a beat, Paul promptly replied "To the toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny"  
John's laughter pealed around the room, and Paul stopped, confused.  
!What?" he frowned at John. Slowly John's giggles subsided.  
"Y' daft bugger...I meant where are we going..as in..tomorrow?...where are we going?."  
Realisation dawned across Paul's face "Oh..tomorrow...destination? Er...Boston, I think."  
"Do they want to kill me there?" John enquired, lighting a cigarette.   
Paul shook his head. "Nah..reckon you'll be okay there. More likely when we get to Memphis."  
"Oh?" John squinted questioningly through the smoke. "Why's that?"  
"Bible belt, innit?"   
Around them the room was slowly emptying. Mal stood up, towering over everyone else. "Right..good night, you two. Don't get lost. D'you know where your room is?"  
They both nodded reassuringly.  
"Good..an' if you 'ave a girl, don't forget to use something..y' never know what they might have."  
John and Paul burst out laughing at this random piece of advice from their intoxicated roadie. He beamed at them jovially, and wended his way towards his bedroom.  
Someone turned the dimmer switch down on the lights. Someone was humming softly one of the melodies Paul had just been playing. John glanced into Paul's dark hazel eyes where he was sitting at the piano, his fingers still upon his lap. John licked his tongue over his suddenly dry lips, and followed the contours of Paul's face down, resting on his mouth. Paul's lips were slightly parted, his eyes dark in the shadows. John moved closer in, never breaking eye contact. He could feel..he could almost taste..those lips..so long..such a long time..John's eyes were almost closed, his breath held in anticipation...  
"I..I need to go to bed" suddenly Paul was on his feet, breaking the spell. John gasped in shock. Paul's face was registering horror, and he was in what John always thought of as his Bambi pose, all long legs and big eyes, ready to flee.  
John's arm shot out and caught him. He couldn't let him go, not just like that. Surely he'd felt it too? Surely?  
"John" Paul shook his arm"John, please, I..I need.."  
John's grip tightened round Paul's arm. He saw Paul glance swiftly round the room, but no-one seemed to have noticed them.  
"John..please..not..not now, not here.."  
John's nails were digging through Paul's shirt. Tomorrow he'd have marks on his forearm. He could see John darkening in anger. Paul began to panic..he didn't want to make a scene..he really didn't want a scene..he really didn't..  
"You two okay then?" Ringo's voice. Paul heaved a sigh of relief. Immediately John dropped Paul's arm and shrank silently back into the darkness, saying not a word.  
Ringo's gaze followed John until he exited the dim room, then turned back to Paul, who had sank back down onto the piano stool as if his legs would no longer support him. He frowned in consternation.  
"Paul?" It was difficult to see in this darkness. It looked as if he was trembling.  
Ringo stooped down to see better. "Paul? Are you okay? What..?"  
Paul swiped a finger under his eyes, and stood up swiftly. "Sorry, Ringo, I'm just..I'm just really tired."  
Then he'd gone too. Funny, thought Ringo, that's the exact same words he said to me the other night.

Paul dallied outside the room he was to share with John. Truth be told he was too nervous to go in, not knowing how John would be. He cursed under his breath. Why hadn't he thought to ask Ringo if he could share with him? Why hadn't he thought ahead? Or George..oh, no, wait a moment, George was pissed off with him at the moment, wasn't he? But why? What had he done? Paul executed a few circles outside the bedroom door, unsure. His body was exhausted, running on two night's lack of proper sleep, but his mind was in a turmoil. He couldn't go in that room. He just couldn't face John again. This was getting too much. A real shitty tour this was turning out to be. Death threats. Ticket sales down. George threatening to quit. And on top of that John...John..he executed a few more circles, then suddenly became aware of someone watching him. Fucking hell...was Ringo omnipresent at the moment? Their eyes met. In Ringo's he saw sympathy.  
"Are you worried about sharing with John?" The question was soft.  
Paul bit his lip, and nodded.  
"D'you want my bed?" Paul could have hugged him, but...  
"What about George?"  
"He's asleep.."  
"My things..they're in that room.."  
"I'll get them for you.."  
"But..John.."  
"I'll deal with John. You go and start getting undressed, I'll bring everything in to you.."  
Paul could have cried with relief "Thank you."  
"It's okay, now..go..go on, start getting undressed. Where's your toilet bag?"  
"On the sink, I think."  
"Alright " Ringo gave a soft, sad smile " Go on, mate, don't worry. A Dingle lad can soon sort John Lennon."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boston

Thursday 18th August 1966

George stretched and yawned, feeling so much more rested after a thorough night's sleep. From the communal lounge he could hear voices, particularly Brian. No doubt Brian would be checking everything out. Sometimes George wondered if he ever slept at all. He stretched again, luxuriating in the feel of clean bed clothes and a comfortable bed. His stomach gave a tell-tale rumble. He was vulnerable to always being teased about his voracious appetite, but honestly, truly, he was always hungry. With any luck breakfast would be awaiting him in the lounge, and if he was quick he could get through the bathroom before Ringo. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, glancing over at Ringo's bed, expecting to see a head of silky light brown hair. He blinked in surprise when he could only see the top of a dark head. Shit! Had Ringo got a bird in his bed still? It wouldn't be the first time.  
George slipped quietly off his bed and cautiously leaned over. Paul! Paul with the covers pulled right up to his chin, eyes tight shut, his body facing away from George towards the wall. What the fuck was Paul doing in here, and where was Ringo? Ringo's suit was still hanging up, and his suitcase left by the wardrobe. Ringo wasn't in there too was he? George craned his neck a little further...stranger things had been known to happen after all. No...he breathed a sigh of relief..just Paul. So...why? What had happened to cause a change of plan? George considered waking Paul to ask, but he looked dead to the world.

As George pondered, a brisk knock came on the door.  
"Ringo, George, time to be up. Breakfast's ready..leaving in two hours."  
George looked at the door as if it would supply an answer, then back at Ringo's bed.  
He heard Paul groan.   
"Breakfast, mate." George confirmed.  
Paul rolled over in his bed..well, Ringo's bed...and blearily peeled open one eye.  
"What?"  
George stood up, pulling his dressing gown tighter round him.  
"Breakfast. Now." Christ..he needed a pee. "D'you mind if?...."  
"No, no, go ahead.."Paul yawned as he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of their bathroom.  
By the time George had relieved himself Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and was rubbing his hands through messy black locks.  
"I thought you were a girl" George smirked, looking at him "Y'know..when I woke. Thought Ringo had fallen asleep on the job, like."  
Paul blinked confusedly up at him. "What?"  
George shook his head. "S'okay. It's not important."  
To his surprise, George found he was actually quite chuffed to have Paul. It wasn't often he got him to himself now. Feeling gregarious, George perched on the bed opposite.  
For the first time he got a clear view of Paul. His smile dropped a little, and a small frown creased his forehead.  
"Are you okay?" he asked in concern. Paul looked dreadful, his eyes bloodshot, dark circles underneath, his face blotchy and dark with stubble. He saw a shadow flit across Paul's face. Oh oh. Lennon trouble?   
"Yeah..yeah, m'fine, Geo...it's just...tiring, innit, all the travelling."  
"Y' don't look too good to me, mate. What y' doing in here anyway... not that I mind, like."  
Paul opened his mouth and then shut it again...he didn't have a suitable answer ready. He shifted, uncomfortable. George dropped his scrutiny quickly. No sense in putting the poor bloke on the spot.  
"Fancy a cuppa?"  
Paul's face lit up.."Oh, God, yes, please. I..er, I haven't..I mean, my clothes.." he indicated his state of undress.  
"S'okay..I'll go get one. You stay put."  
Having got Paul, he wasn't going to let him go that quickly.

Ringo woke to find John staring accusingly at him, a deep frown on his face.  
"What the fuck are you doing in 'ere? Where the fuck's Paul?"  
Ringo gathered his scattered wits about him. By the time he'd gone to bed last night, John had already been asleep. It didn't take Lennon long to go out like a light, particularly if he'd been drinking.  
Why was he in here? Oh..yes..Paul...Paul walking endless circles outside the door, unwilling or unable to share with John. Ringo had no idea what was going on, but that had been one messed up boy last night. Ringo thought quickly..well, as quick as he could seeing he'd only just woken. Deviate...deviate....  
"Oh...erm, we must have got mixed up with the rooms, me and Paul, when we came up.." Ringo gave a sheepish grin. John wasn't buying.  
"The fuck y' did." He cut Ringo down straightaway.  
"Where the fuck is he? With Harrison?"  
"Well..yes, I guess so.."  
"His suits still here...and his pyjamas. Has he gone off with some bird?"  
Jesus. Ringo was getting a headache. John was full-on.  
"No, he came up when I did. We were tired, John" Ringo added beseechingly. "Can't blame us for getting confused."  
At that precise moment the same brisk knock came on their door.  
"Breakfast..now. Leaving in two hours. Paul? John? You awake?"  
John frowned at Ringo, who gave another sheepish grin.  
"Fuck off!" John yelled to the wake up caller.  
Then John bent down, his face inches from Ringo's nose.  
"Summat's going on. Why don't I believe you?"  
Ringo wasn't easily intimidated.  
"Up to you, son, what you believe."  
They held eye contact for a moment, then John peeled off, exiting the room and slamming the door.

Brian, Mal, Neil, the press officer Tony, Harry who'd been taking official photos, and a few others who were taking the opportunity to eat before the madness of the day began, all looked up in astonishment as an almost naked Lennon, red-faced and angry, came storming through the midst of them, heading directly for the other bedroom. Their conversation halted, and all heads turned to watch. John entered the bedroom belonging to George and Ringo and slammed the door shut behind him. Brian raised his eyebrows. Harry blinked, unsure if he should have seen that. Tony was just thanking God there'd been no other press in the room at that time. From behind the closed door they heard raised voices.

George had not long passed Paul a cup of tea when John stormed in. Paul had leapt to his feet defensively, but having nowhere to go had sat down swiftly again. George noted the panic that registered on Paul's face before he collected himself. John totally ignored George. He simply rounded on Paul, who remained seated.  
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing, McCartney?"  
Paul blinked up at him, making full use of his innocent wide-eyed gaze.  
"What? What's the problem?" Paul was absolutely knackered and really didn't feel like coping with John, but he was conscious of trying to smooth everything out, not letting John think he'd been snubbed. John was having none of it. He grabbed hold of Paul's forearm, yanking him up, and the tea went everywhere. John ignored it.  
"Don't play the innocent with me. You know full well what I mean."   
George rose swiftly to his feet, angry.  
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing? Let go of him."  
For the first time, John assimilated the fact that George was there too....and a very bristling, angry George, what was more.  
"He doesn't need you to stick up for him. Keep your nose outta it."  
"Excuse me, Mr Lennon, this is MY fucking room you've just barged into..."  
"...aye, and he should be in MY room, not yours..."  
"Paul can be wherever he wants to be..he's not married to you.."  
"..but his things are in MY fucking room.."  
Paul, his arm still tightly held in John's grip, followed with amazement the argument being played out in front of him.  
"Boys...boys...." suddenly Brian was there. He blushed somewhat at Paul's near naked appearance and averted his eyes, but persisted. "Please...what on earth is going on.?"  
"Well ask.. "Paul should.." "I didn't.." All three voices spoke at once. Brian went even redder, and waved his arms for silence.  
"You are behaving like six year old's " he hissed "For goodness sake...sort yourselves out."  
John dropped Paul's arm. Paul sank down onto the bed. George sat down on his. John drew a deep breath. Fuck. What on earth had he been thinking? He must have looked so stupid. He turned on his heel and strode back out of the room without a word. Brian's glanced crossed from George to Paul, trying to suss out what had gone on. He saw Paul unconsciously pull some of the bedclothes around his thighs in an effort to cover up.  
"Are you two boys okay?"  
It was George that nodded. "Yeah, we're fine."  
Paul still looked dazed and didn't reply.

Breakfast was a stilted affair. Conversation zilch. Paul stirred his tea endlessly, his eyes gazing into space. John kept glaring at him, but Paul was deliberately avoiding eye contact. George solemnly ate his way through everything everyone else left, his eyes continually on either John or Paul. Ringo put on a beaming smile and chose the option that said 'ignore'. Eventually they were on the bus that was bound for the airport. One performance scheduled, at eight o'clock, with the inevitable press conference before it. They really didn't want to face another press conference. It was their unity that enabled them to cope, and at the moment they were disunified. Ringo found Paul seemed to be attached to him by the hip. Wherever he moved, Paul was there. Add that to the glowering glances thrown their way by John. Ringo sighed.  
"Are you two not talking, then?" he ventured to ask while they waited for the plane. By this point Paul was almost sitting in his lap.  
Paul looked at him in surprise, all innocence. "Sorry?"  
Ringo just shook his head. It was the same on the plane. As Ringo searched for a seat, Paul unceremoniously pushed him into a window one, and then sat next to him. When he raised a questioning eyebrow at Paul, Paul just smiled back, as if everything was quite normal. People were still passing along the aisle. At one point a tall figure stopped right by them. John. Ringo looked up and saw John's expression. It was tinged with sadness and confusion. He glanced at Paul by him who was ignoring John and appeared busy reading the in-flight menu. Only after John had moved on did Ringo reach over, take the menu out of Paul's hands and turn it around so that Paul was reading the correct way up. Paul blushed and stammered his thanks. Ringo just shook his head again.

The concert was to be held in the middle of a racecourse.  
"Let's hope the 3,30 at Epsom doesn't overrun" George joked. Well, at least he seemed to be in a better humour. Paul was being very blase, humming to himself as he changed into one of the green suits with the black velvet collars that they were wearing for this performance. Meanwhile John appeared very subdued, his eyes following Paul's tall figure wherever the lad roamed.  
"How many?" someone asked.  
"About twenty five thousand" someone answered. The figures were always in the thousands ... it didn't mean anything anymore. A limousine actually drove them directly up to the stage on which they were to perform. The stage had been erected in the middle of the racecourse, and the fans were the other side of the tracks, a hundred yards away. They seemed so distant. Paul was still avoiding John as if he had the plague while keeping a very bright if fake smile plastered across his face. Ringo actually began to feel rather sorry for John. In Ringo's mind he began to take on the aspect of a lost puppy. Sure he could be a real arse-hole but he didn't need this freeze out from Paul.  
George nudged him in the ribs.  
"What's gone on with those two?" he queried, raising his eyebrow towards them.   
Ringo shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. No idea, son."  
"So...why did Paul end up in my room last night then?"  
Ringo mused over the question. "Well, y'see, I got the impression he was afraid to be left alone with John."  
"Afraid?" George's eyebrow went even higher.  
Ringo shrugged. "It's just.. how he came over, like. Dunno what's gone on."  
An almighty crescendo of noise alerted them to the fact they'd been announced, and they clambered up on to the stage to thousands of flashbulbs popping.  
Hearing John and Paul sing, no one would have thought there was a problem. The only hiccup in the whole performance occurred when a fan suddenly appeared from behind their Vox amplifiers and made a bee-line for George, grabbing him around the waist. The poor guy nearly died of shock. Paul and John found this amusing, and found they were laughing together. Then Paul dropped his eyes, and drew away again.The last item for the night was Long Tall Sally...automatically, Paul glanced around for John. Usually John was there, jokingly encouraging Paul on during this exuberant piece. But John was standing to one side, distant, just observing. Paul gritted his teeth and launched in. He could do this. He'd give Boston a reason to remember the Beatles. Never mind tomorrow...tomorrow....tomorrow...Memphis...Bible Belt...oh shit....


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay...so Memphis...everyone knows what happened, so that makes it not so easy to write

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna do my best with this one...but if you don't like it go and read cpenguin's version instead!

They knew there would be problems. It was written in the stars...well, not originally, but John had changed all that. 

Paul keenly felt the loss of John's companionship...it was as if part of him was missing. He couldn't help but notice John's sidelong looks at him, but John made no attempt to converse with Paul. John seemed to be hanging out with George. Let's face facts, when there's only four of you there's not a lot of choice, really. No-one understands what you're going through except the other three. So their conversation was stilted, limited, and even if Paul was glued to his sleeve Ringo couldn't help but be aware of the fact that Paul was continually observing John. At one point, George caught Ringo's expression, and raised a questioning eyebrow. Ringo shrugged and rolled his eyes. What was going on? Anyone's guess.

John meandered over to Brian, who looked up in surprise at being approached.  
"Hey, Brian, what we in for? Paul said summat about it being bible belt?" Despite John's casual query, Brian could sense the disturbance in John's eyes.  
He cleared his throat nervously...stupid...how many years now had he known John and still the man managed to put him at a disadvantage. He gathered his manager mode around him as if wrapping himself in a coat.  
"Well, John...erm...yes, bible belt. The, er, city council voted to cancel the two shows because of the, er, the...controversy." Brian was blushing.  
Tony Barrow heard Brian's comment, and clarified it for John.  
"They said.." Tony read from a newspaper "they didn't want municipal facilities be used as a forum to ridicule anyone's religion."  
"Fuck" said John "Bet they'll pocket the money we make 'em though."  
"It is still going ahead, isn't it, though?" George craned his neck to join the conversation. Was that a glimmer of hope in his eyes? Brian winced...the youngest Beatle would probably be more than happy to see it cancelled.  
"Yes, yes, it is going ahead, George. Tickets are nearly sold out...the fans, you know. Need to think about them."  
Think about them, yeah, just try not to think about the death threats. This was where they were at the greatest risk...they knew that. This was the deep south, home of conservatism. John had certainly rattled the population down here.  
Casually, Brian had tried to avoid them seeing any of the television that was at this very moment showing live recordings of Beatle bonfires, of random protest groups, of Ku Klux Klan preparing to stage a rally, of a fanatical preacher who already had a rally in full swing.  
Brian was trying to keep it all calm and collected, which on the surface it was, but underneath....underneath was a really nasty atmosphere. 

"Lunch?" Ringo turned to ask Paul, who hadn't left his side other than to use toilet facilities.   
Paul looked at Ringo in confusion. "Huh?"  
Christ...where were the bassist's thoughts at the moment? Ringo smiled patiently.  
"Lunch?" he indicated the food that had arrived. Paul wrinkled his nose.  
"I'm not really hungry."  
Ringo frowned. "Y'need to eat something, son...there's two shows today and you're not gonna do them both on an empty stomach. I'm gonna have something, anyway."  
So saying, Ringo moved across to the buffet table. Inevitably, Paul went with him, keeping close. Ringo began piling his plate, pointing out titbits he thought might tempt Paul.  
"Look sausage rolls...d'you want a sausage roll? No?..well, what about a salmon..."  
"I don't like fish.."  
"..or..ooh, look, strawberries...they look good, don't they? I wonder if they grow them here?"  
Paul reached out to take a strawberry....so did another hand, at the exact same time, go for the exact same luscious strawberry that was sitting on top of the dish.  
Their fingers touched...Paul drew his back quickly, a sharp intake of breath accompanying his action. Across the table, his eyes met John's. John's fingers were still poised above the strawberry. He drew back too. His voice was detached.  
"Go ahead...have it."  
"No..no, it's okay..."  
"Paul, for fucksake, just take it."  
"No..you can..I'm not bothered, honestly.."  
Ringo butted in "Guys, there's a whole dish of them. You can each have as many as you want. What's the problem?"  
For one moment John and Paul's eyes focused on Ringo, who grinned disarmingly at them both. "I'm just saying, is all."  
Next moment, John had gone. Beside him Ringo felt Paul deflate.  
Ringo indicated the strawberry that still sat there. "Well, are you gonna take it?"  
Paul shrugged. "Don't really want anything."  
As Ringo opened his mouth to speak, feeling totally exasperated with the young man who'd seen fit to attach himself permanently to his side, George stepped in to save the situation. Well...save it?  
"Have you seen the protests that are going on?" George was wide eyed and incredulous. "It's pretty bad out there, y'know. There's all kinds of bonfires and rallies and that...Paul?   
Paul? What's the matter?"  
Paul had gone white, and suddenly looked rather unsteady. George's arm shot out to catch him. Paul's full weight landed in his arms.  
"Fuck...get a chair, quick."  
"Here..here, have this..is he okay?"  
George lowered Paul onto the chair, not letting go of him.  
"Some water or something. Here, you alright?"  
Paul was ineffectually trying to bat George off, the colour returning to his face. "M'fine...m'fine..stoppit...don't fuss."  
Ringo passed over a glass of water, which George pushed into Paul's hand. "Drink..go on..have a drink. You sure you're alright? D'you want me to get?...."  
Paul cut him off abruptly. "I'm okay...dunno what happened...m'fine, honest..really."  
George's brow was furrowed. "Have you eaten anything?"  
A long relationship with Paul had taught George that when stressed or busy food was something that Paul often forgot to partake of...amazing though it seemed to him.  
"He's not eaten a thing all day" Ringo supplied, raising his eyebrows.  
"Not even breakfast? Christ, Paul, no wonder you nearly passed out. I'll get you a plate of food.."  
"I'm not hun..."  
"The fuck you're not!" George cut across him. "I'm gonna get you a plate of food and sit here while you eat it. Whatever's going on outside, it ain't gonna help matters if you don't eat." George moved in the direction of the tables. Ringo looked down at Paul, who had rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. Around them, conversation went on as usual. No one had noticed...for which Paul was thankful. Yes..he was hungry, but the thought of eating just made him feel sick...all this anger, all this hatred..he found it really difficult to cope. Paul liked to be liked..the antagonism was so hard to contend with.  
"You alright, mate?" Ringo's voice was soft. Paul just nodded without looking up.  
"George is right, y'know. Y' need to eat. Not helping anyone or anything if y'don't."  
Ringo felt someone watching him. When he looked up, John was across the table, his mouth drawn in a thin line, observing. As soon as Ringo's eyes made contact, John turned away.  
"Food!!!" George's voice made him jump. George placed the plate on Paul's lap. "Bread, butter, cheese and fruit. Now even you can't say no to that."  
"Thanks, Geo."  
"Honestly, McCartney, sometimes you just need someone to look after you...forgetting to eat. How could you? I mean...HOW could you?"  
Both Ringo and Paul smiled.

Outside the Mid-South Coliseum the Ku Klux Klan paraded in their robes. The chanting of the protestors became louder, and as the clock approached four and the start of the afternoon's performance, tempers and feelings were running high. Inside the Coliseum there was a crescendo of noise as the Beatles took the platform. Fortunately the ten thousand fans inside drowned out the noise of protest from outside. Even so, they were uneasy. Maybe it was nerves, but they seemed to be playing faster than ever. Each one of them felt an easy target for any mad man who may want to take a pot shot. It was a relief when they had finished that set and nothing untoward had happened. They exited the stage, smiling at one another in relief. The next performance wasn't until eight thirty. Time to shower, change into their other suits, maybe relax, maybe have a smoke.  
"Don't wander off" Brian reprimanded them. Tony Barrow was filling them in with the details of their flight that evening...after their next performance they were to fly straight to Cincinnati. To all of them it would be a relief to get out of the bible belt. Before the start of that evening's performance there was a tension in the air. They'd felt it before, but this time it was pressing, like a barometer falling...oppressive...unnerving...an awful feeling...  
They could hear the phone keep ringing, and hushed voices. They knew what it was. Death threats. They were coming in one after the other. Brian looked nervous. He wasn't telling them anything. But they weren't stupid. They could see the glances that were being exchanged.  
"Should I have made my will?" George attempted a feeble joke. "I could leave me hair to me country."  
"Aye...they'd rather have your money son." quipped Ringo.  
Paul and John didn't speak. Not to each other. Not to anyone.

And then they were on...twelve and a half thousand screaming youngsters, flashbulbs popping in the darkness. They were all wound up. On edge with each other and the whole situation. John, though he would never have admitted it to anyone, was mentally berating himself. Him and his big mouth. He'd caused this. And the others were having to go through it with him. And not one of the other three had ever turned round and blamed him. They'd simply stuck by him. All for one and one for all. If anything ever happened to any of them...Ringo, behind him, great big grin on his face, beating the shite out of his kit....George..young George, always the gangly schoolboy in John's mind..he felt so responsible for him...and Paul...Paul...God forbid anything should happen to him....  
"If i needed someone to love...you're the one that I'd be thinking of  
If I needed someone..." George's voice could just be heard over the screaming.  
CRACK...........It was LOUD..so LOUD..a GUNSHOT...someone's been SHOT...SHOT....JESUS...OH GOD....A GUNSHOT....A BULLET..........  
John's head whipped round. His heart rate accelerated. Who'd been shot? Not Paul? Please God not it let be Paul? No he was still there, eyes wide and scared, but still playing...George..God, not George..his mother'd kill me...no..still singing...Ringo??? But the drum beat's still there..oh God...oh God...what if they try again? Move...everyone..just...bounce around a bit...faster...faster...let's go...  
with one accord, they all sped up. There was noise in the audience, a commotion...what had happened? Christ they were sitting ducks...get through this..get off..oh God oh God..  
John wasn't aware of what he was doing, what he was singing, motions...just going through the motions..please God get us off this stage in one piece...if somebodies gotta get it, let it be me, not them, let it be me....

John had no memory of coming off the stage...he handed his guitar to someone..who?..anyone...someone...his hands were shaking so much...there was noise all around him...he swiped his hand across his forehead, pushing sweat drenched locks out of his eyes. Next moment he was almost knocked off his feet by a body that slammed into him at G force speed....arms went round him...he caught a blur of dark hair...next moment someone..Paul?..it had to be Paul....was hugging him as if there was no tomorrow, and an unending stream of words were pouring into John's ear "Oh God..oh God..I thought..oh Christ Jesus..I ..shit..oh God..oh my God John..I thought..I thought you'd..oh God..."  
John became aware of the relative silence of the back room and of everyone watching them. He could feel Paul gripping onto him for dear life, babbling incoherently as he always did when really upset. John considered the situation for one very brief moment, then slowly and deliberately snaked his arms around Paul's waist and pulled the younger man into a tight embrace.  
"It's okay" he whispered into Paul's ear "It's okay..I'm alright...an' so are you an' George an' Ritchie...ssh..."  
Paul pulled back slightly to look at John, his eyes, overflowing with emotions, scanning John's face urgently, as if to ensure himself that John was really there, he was really okay...once he'd assured himself of this, he murmured. "I'm sorry..I didn't..I wasn't..."  
John hugged him tighter, not caring who was watching. "It's alright.."he whispered back "I know..."

There were a number of decoy cars situated around the vicinity of the Coliseum in order to distract not just fans but also protestors. It didn't really work. The Beatles tour bus was soon surrounded, some very young faces full of hate hammering on the windows, screaming at them. To the four Beatles, looking out at a scene that could have come straight from Dante's Inferno, it seemed impossible to equate this scene with what, to them originally, had been a desire to share their music...they'd only ever wanted to do this for fun...because they could...and bring pleasure. How had a chance remark caused all this upheaval?  
As the bus gently accelerated, and set a route towards the airport, they breathed a collective sigh of relief. George and Ringo glanced across the aisle to where Paul and John were sitting, heads together, deep in conversation. They were entirely in their own world again. And that, thought Ringo to himself, is exactly how it should be.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 20th August Cincinnati

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On with the tour...

20th August 1966

"Where's me pick? Mal...I've lost me pick again..." George whined.  
Mal felt through his pockets, seeking yet another. "Dunno what the fuck George does with all his plectrums" he muttered to Ringo who was nearby " I'm seriously thinking he must have shares in a company that makes 'em, an' he's keeping the sales up."  
Ringo grinned back. He was feeling in a good mood. George seemed happier, Paul and John appeared to be their usual selves, and Ringo breathed a sigh of relief that he didn't seem to have Paul attached to his side permanently anymore...THAT had proved a somewhat exhausting experience, much as he loved the lad. Across the room, Ringo could hear Tony Barrow reporting yesterday's incident at Memphis to someone the other end of the phone wire. He listened with half an ear to one side of the conversation.  
"....fuckin' firecracker...yeah, onto the stage...what?...tell you something, it says a lot about 'em that they didn't drop one single beat...no, not one....yeah, you ask me they've had enough...oh, Cincinnati. Should be...not too good, looks like rain...I hope they have, we're in the bloody middle of a ball field..yeah, first wicket, haha.."  
Ringo's eyes drifted across the Reds Clubhouse they were currently inhabiting. There was a lot of cigarette smoke drifting around, food overflowing on several tables, but not much sign of alcohol. Ringo sighed. Probably Brian was worried they'd drink too much before they went on. Ringo quite liked a little tipple, particularly with the strain they were currently under. It helped him to relax a bit.

"Y'okay?" Paul had suddenly materialised at his side, looking somewhat anxious, but a bright smile on his face.  
Ringo beamed back at him. "I'm fine, son, you? Ready to do this one?" 

Paul licked his dry lips nervously. "Shit...just about. Can't do with a repeat of yesterday." 

"No...I reckon we can all avoid that, love. How many out there?" Ringo cocked his head in the direction of the door.  
"Oh...about 35000 they say. The weather is getting worse though. Mal said..did you hear?...they hadn't set up an electrical source. Thought we played guitars...Mal said, yeah, ELECTRIC guitars. They had to go and find a supply."  
Ringo took a drag of his cigarette, and tutted. "Who's the promoter?"  
"Dunno. Santangelo or someone, I think. Not sure. You'd ha' thought they'd have realised, wouldn't ye?"  
Ringo's skilled eye noticed Paul appeared more jittery than usual.  
"Nervous?" he asked him quietly.  
Paul hesitated, then gave a swift nod. He didn't like to admit to it...didn't really want to acknowledge the fact at all, as it gave the condition credence. But yesterday had really shaken him.  
"Well, we should be on soon. I think the act before us is just finishing."  
Paul nodded. "Yeah, get on, get it done, get it over with, eh?"  
Ringo took an astonished step back. "This from the man who likes performing???" he asked in a teasing tone.  
Paul gave a guilty shrug.

"Okay boys" Brian's voice cut across. "On in about five minutes. Mal's just gone out to check the equipment."  
"It's chuckin' it down out there" John's voice could be heard over conversations."Have you seen it? The heaven's have opened."  
One of the Ronettes, last act to perform, was shaking the rain off her black curls.  
"They're putting a tarpaulin over the stage...not that it'll do much good, the rains so heavy it's just getting in everywhere." she informed them.  
Beside him, Ringo saw Paul suppress a shudder.  
"We can't perform in this" George was there by them, a frown furrowing his brow.  
"But we've never cancelled a concert before...not ever..." Paul stuttered.  
George's frown deepened "There's a first time for everything, Paul."  
"Yeah, I know....it's just..like..I'm okay to go on now, but..I ..don't want to have to wait any longer." His legs propelled him off in the direction of John.  
George turned questioningly to Ringo. "Is he okay?"  
Ringo lit yet another cigarette, and noticed with a detached air that his own fingers were shaking. "Yeah..just a bit nervous, like."  
Christ! Was he nervous too and didn't even know it?  
"Are you all ready?" Brian, looking anxious. Why was everyone so flustered?  
Next moment there was a commotion by the door, and a very white and shaken Mal appeared, soaked through to the skin.  
"Fucking stupid ...stupid.." "..what..." "..plugged in..." "...thrown across the stage..."  
Ringo moved with the crowd towards Mal.  
"What's going on?"  
"What's up?"  
Neil turned to Ringo "Mal plugged Paul's guitar into the amp and he got a shock...he was thrown across the stage...It's fucking pouring down out there. All the equipment is wet. It's only tarpaulin they've thrown over as a temporary shelter...the rain's just getting in everywhere."  
"Is Mal okay? Is he alright?"  
"Think so, but..." Nel ran a hand over his light curly hair "..Jesus Christ, this is a fucking circus, innit?"

They could hear raised voices...Brian. Brian, usually so calm.  
"Not in this. I am not risking their lives."  
"Sir, we have thirty five thousand fans rioting out there...they have paid.."  
"I'm not risking their lives. They could be electrocuted.."  
"We have fortified the covering.."  
On and on and on.  
John moved in. "Look, if you cancel it, we'll perform tomorrow instead."  
Two faces looked at John, hope, despair, disappointment, so many emotions running high.  
"But, John, we're in St. Louis tomorrow" Brian objected.  
John was amazingly calm about it all.  
"We could perform here early tomorrow..say eleven or twelve, pack up and get a later flight."  
Hope began to dawn on the promoter's face...although he would still lose money because he'd have to hire the stadium for yet another day...but at least he wouldn't lose face.  
"Well...that's a possibility. But, er, you are aware people go to church here on a Sunday? They don't like their routines interfered with. I think we could get away with a Sunday performance if folk have chance to attend a service first, so twelve would be more suitable? Would you be willing to do that?"  
"But...but..." Brian was stupefied.  
John smiled at him disarmingly. "You can sort it, Brian. You can sort anything."  
The noise from the stadium could still be heard over the sound of torrential downpour. Decisions, decisions.  
"Okay. We'll cancel and perform tomorrow. Just the Beatles. Mid-day?"  
The promoter gave a relieved sigh. "Mid-day. I'll..er..go and inform the audience."  
Brian looked at John. "Find a different flight? You think it's that easy? John, you..."  
"You'll manage it, Eppy. I have great faith in you. " John flashed him a big smile.  
Brian surveyed him with suspicious eyes. What had happened to suddenly make John so..so...altruistic? So gregarious? So..so...Brian shook his head.

Mal..big Mal...was sitting on a comfortable chair, a drink of water in his hands. He looked completely frazzled. Nel was with him, and in quiet voices they were discussing how and when to remove the Beatles equipment off the stage. Nel glanced up as John approached, and a moment later so did Mal.  
"Y'okay Mal? Not fried to a crisp?" John's tone was joking, but underneath there was a serious element.  
Still shaken beyond belief, Mal could only nod.  
"Cancelling, then? Doing it to tomorrow at dinnertime, I hear?" Nel asked.  
John nodded. "Yeah...sorry about that. Double work for you guys, I know."  
Nel gave a snort. "We'll cope. Had worse thrown at us mate."  
"Hmm" John's eyes were scanning the room and he seemed distracted.   
"Where's Paul?" he murmured half to himself, but Nel heard him nonetheless.  
"He's in the loos throwing up"  
John glanced swiftly at him.   
Nel shrugged. "It's the stress got to him. First you're on, then you're not..."  
"Shit! Who's with him?"  
Nel shrugged. "Dunno. I was, but then Mal..."  
John turned swiftly on his heels, and was gone.

The locker rooms were clinical and white tiled. In the echoey cavernous space John could hear the sound of someone retching. In an instant he was at Paul's side, and slipped his arm around the figure leaning over the sink. Paul glanced at him briefly, alarm showing. He didn't like to be seen not in control. He made a half-hearted attempt to push John off, but then another spasm shook him. John determindly tightened h  
is hold around the slim figure.  
"Hey up, Macca, take it easy. We've cancelled, y'know."  
Paul's face was still bent low over the sink, dark hair obscuring his face from John. "Yeah..I..I know.." he stuttered.  
John swept his hand under Paul's fringe swiftly. He was hot and clammy, and drops of sweat remained on John's fingers. Unthinking, uncaring, he wiped them on his suit trousers.  
"Can I get y' something? Water?"  
Paul shook his head. Everything that went in just came out again. His insides were churning.  
John sighed, and simply held on tighter. He rested his head on Paul's bent over back, noticing the white of Paul's knuckles gripping the sides of the sink.   
"It's been a shitty tour, hasn't it?"  
He felt Paul give a snort of agreement before he retched again. There wasn't really anything left to throw up.   
"What's this place called?" he heard Paul whisper.  
"Crosley Field. Would you like me to re-name it for you?"  
"To what? Throw-up Field?"  
John squeezed Paul a little tighter. "Well, I was thinking Fry-Up Field."  
Paul turned slightly in John's arms to survey him. He looked pale and drawn, but there was a small sparkle in his eyes. John planned to work on that.  
"Fry-Up Field?" Paul queried, eyebrow arched in curiousity.  
"Yeah" John viewed his partner fondly "In memory of Mal nearly getting electrocuted...but maybe you think your throwing up takes precedence?"  
Paul shook his head, then wished he hadn't as everything swung round him.  
"No..no..I don't take precedence " his voice ghosted out " no..let's just call it Shit Field"  
"Rain Field"  
"Storm Field"  
"Piss Field"  
"Dead Loss Field"  
"Let's go home field"  
Paul's body stilled for a moment in John's arms, then he suddenly turned and threw up again. He groaned, and leant his head down on the porcelain sink.  
"Oh Christ, why am I so crap? I never used to be like this.."  
Inside John felt a pang of guilt at Paul's words. He gently hugged Paul.  
"Come on, Macca, let go your love affair with the sink. Come and sit down for a bit."  
Paul's hold on the sink tightened.  
"No..I might throw up over you."  
"Well, maybe I deserve it" John retorted bitterly.  
Paul turned completely in his arms, his eyes wide in horror.  
"Deserve it? You don't deserve it, Johnny. Not everything that's been said...no one has the right to..oh!!"  
Paul turned again, and threw up another load of nothing into the sink.  
"Now this is just getting silly.." he admonished himself quietly.   
John smiled, and stroked his back. "Come on, Paulie, come and sit down over here..."  
"But..but, I might..."   
John was trying to pry him away from the sink, Paul's fingers were still gripping on for dear life.  
"Look" John explained patiently "There's hardly anything coming out..let's just risk it, eh? I'll clear up if there is."  
Paul reluctantly loosened his grip. "I hate being sick" he moaned to no one in particular.  
John smiled as he slung a supporting arm under Paul's shoulders. "Yeah, I know y' do, love."  
He steered Paul in the direction of the benches that ran around the changing room, and lowered the two of them down.  
"How y' feeling now?"  
"Shitty."  
"To go with Shit Field?"  
The corner of Paul's lips turned up slightly. "Yeah."  
"Shall we go with Shit Field then?"  
"Yeah." John slipped his arm around Paul's shoulders and gave him a squeeze.  
"I'm sorry I got you into this mess."  
Paul looked at John with concerned eyes. "You didn't, it was..."  
"Yes, I did. And I'm not just talking about..about this..today, or yesterday, or the whole tour. I mean..I'm sorry I got you into...everything. All of it..."  
Paul was watching John closely, his eyes trying desperately to follow John's train of thoughts.  
"What d'you mean?"  
John was looking down at their hands which, somehow, had become entwined, Paul's left hand held in his right.  
"The whole thing..all of it..all the fame, and..Beatles thing..and bigger than Jesus, and drugs and Hamburg and..Paris..and you, and...me..."  
John raised his eyes to meet Paul's horrified wide open stare.  
"How can you say that?"  
John gazed at Paul, loving every inch of him, every expression, his face, his eyes...Christ, long ago he'd fallen for this Adonis from Allerton..  
"I wrecked you..."  
"...John, no.."  
"I did, Paul. Your dad was right. I was no good for you. I led you into sinful ways."  
Paul was shaking his head. "No, John..stop it. Stop saying these things..you're...you're deranged. I don't regret it."  
John paused, his eyes scanning Paul's face earnestly, as if he could dig out the truth and not just the parts Paul wanted him to see.  
"You don't?"  
Paul shook his head, his eyes never losing contact with John's.  
"Not even...not even...Paris?"  
A small smile touched Paul's face. "Not even Paris.."  
"But..you wouldn't have, if I hadn't pushed."  
Paul gave a slight shrug. "Mmm..maybe not, but..."  
"Do you regret it?"  
Paul's reply was swift, genuine. John could see that. "Oh God, no. Never. Not for a minute."  
John shifted his hand higher up Paul's back, up to his neck, his fingers tangling in the soft dark hair. Slowly, slowly, he drew him nearer, until their lips met. He felt a jolt go through Paul, then a slight hesitation before Paul responded. He let go of Paul's hand and slipped his arm around the tall figure, pulling him closer. He felt Paul shift nearer on the wooden bench. Their kiss deepened, and he swiped his tongue across Paul's lower lip, asking for access. Paul granted it, and then suddenly Paul's arms were around him too. He could feel the heat of Paul's body...the man was always like a small radiator even in the middle of winter. Memories of sharing beds with Paul in grotty surroundings, in family homes, in cramped hotels, all surged back into John's mind, and he poured all the love and longing he felt into his embrace. Suddenly he felt Paul stiffen, and swiftly pull back. A second later he caught what Paul's ears had already heard...footsteps echoing along the corridor that led to the locker rooms. Paul was wide eyed and flushed, and John felt sure he probably looked the same.  
"Is everything okay? Just coming to check on Paul."  
Nell. They both breathed a sigh of relief. Next moment the man was in the room, looking questioningly from one to another. John stood up, trying to appear in control, aware of the fact that their usually eloquent bassist seemed to have lost the power of speech.  
"Yeah...fine. He's fine." John glanced down at Paul, who was rendered speechless, and was staring at John with wide eyes. "Erm..he..I think he's stopped throwing up now. Er..erm...how's Mal?"  
Nell considered the question before replying. "Oh, he's okay too. Just a bit shaken. Er...sorry I had to leave you, Paul..it's just..y'know.."  
Being addressed directly started Paul into action. "Oh, it's okay. Don't worry. I'm fine, now. Thanks."  
Nell had the feeling he'd interrupted two naughty schoolboys in the middle of doing something they shouldn't, but as there was no smell of pot in the air he was unsure as to what else could have been happening. Then again, Paul and John had always been a law unto themselves.  
"I came too because Brian said to get changed...we're gonna get you to the hotel for the night and he reckons we could all use some chill out time."  
"Sounds good" John agreed. Beside him, he was aware of Paul rising to his feet. Warm breath shivered across his neck as Paul too agreed. After another scrutinising glance of the duo, Nell turned back the way he'd come, the inference there that they would follow him. After a seconds hesitation, John moved to do so, but as he shifted he felt the slender fingers of Paul's left hand tangle with his right one, their bodies so close together that no one would be able to see. He looked sharply to his right and received a warm encouraging smile. John squeezed the fingers and smiled back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 21st August 1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys, been busy.

Suddenly they had some free time. They were taken back to the hotel and left to their own devices while Brian tried to frantically re-arrange transport to St. Louis for the following day. John had a very...let's face it...incredibly tiny...pang of guilt for the spot he'd placed Brian in, but he had every faith that their manager would manouvre them through the situation.  
They switched their suits for tee shirts and jeans. They put the telly on. They poured drinks and lit ciggies. They felt like kids at school who'd been unexpectedly awarded a day off, even if it meant twice the work tomorrow.  
George got his guitar out, and plonked down on his bed.  
"Ey, Paul, have a listen to this would y'?"  
Never one to resist the lure of music, Paul joined George in his room. John's eyes narrowed through the drift of cigarette smoke as he followed his partner's progress. Fuck. He should have moved in quicker on Paul. Like...as soon as they arrived back at the hotel. Paul rarely sat still for more than a couple of minutes, so if you wanted him you had to grab him. Beside him John could hear someone chatting, but he ignored them as his mind replayed, as if on a loop tape, their exchange in the locker room. It had been a long long time since Paul had opened up to him like that. A strange smile tugged at John's mouth. Maybe he ought to try being shot at more often if it resulted in Paul's unadulterated attention.  
"....managed, he says, so...looks like it ought to be okay." John frowned, and looked round. It had been Ringo speaking.  
"Sorry mate" John shook his head. Ringo smiled sympathetically at him.  
"S'okay, Johnny boy, I can see your attention is elsewhere."  
John was sure he coloured. He went to administer a cutting remark but Ringo's next comment was so astute and genuine he was left speechless.  
"I'm just happy you two sorted your shit out, that's all. Seems to me you're not complete if you're not together." Ringo gave a slow wink and moved away.  
John's eyes drifted across to Paul again...he could just see his long legs stretched out on George's bed, and the sound of strumming on a guitar, and George's lazy drawl as he   
asked something.   
Waitresses were arriving, bearing plates of food, their eyes wandering as they tried to catch glimpses of the Beatles, their cheeks crimson and mouths full of giggles.   
John threw back the tumbler of whisky he'd procured, and directed his legs towards George's room. He needed Paul. He might be interrupting, but his need was greater than George's. As he entered, the two men glanced up. John saw a shadow of annoyance cross George's face before it was returned to it's neutral expression. But Paul's face lit up at the sight of John. John's insides gave a jolt of pure joy at Paul's reaction. Thus empowered, he sat beside Paul on George's bed.  
"What you doin' then, Georgie?"  
Hmm. George's brow furrowed slightly. Nothing he was ready to show John yet...he'd wanted to gain reassurance from Paul first...and maybe some inspiration???  
"Oh..it's great" Paul was straight in there, though, enthusiastic "He's got this idea.."  
"Let's here it, then" John nodded at the youngest member of the group. Paul's reaction to his entering the room had made John feel magnaminous towards the whole world.  
George felt Paul give him an encouraging nudge and smile. "Go on...show John what you've done.."  
John. Just hearing Paul say his name. A warm feeling spread through him. He smiled, and waited. But he wasn't really listening. All he was conscious of was the warmth of Paul's body next to his. Of their thighs rubbing together as they perched on the narrow bed. Of the smell of Paul's cologne. Shit. He was done for.  
He suddenly became aware of the silence, of George looking at him with a knowing expression in his eyes, of Paul, slightly bewildered, not quite in the loop of what was going on, waiting for John to say something about the music George had just performed. Fucking hell. He'd been so lost in the aura of Paul he'd not heard a fucking thing. And what was more, it was pretty obvious by the amused smirk on George's face that he knew John hadn't...and he probably also knew the reason why.   
John cleared his throat. "Very good, that, George, very good" he drawled in his broadest Scouse to try and cover up the moment. Though judging from George's raised eyebrows he'd not pulled the wool over his eyes. However, Paul seemed to have been taken in.  
"Yeah..it is, isn't it. I thought if it just had..." words were spilling from Paul's mouth...John was sure he could see them growing wings and fluttering around the room...quotes of Paul...winged commentaries...all in different colours. John's imagination ran riot. These words would take flight...floating through into the communal lounge, out the open windows...words of sorrow, words of joy...did they go on and on forever, once uttered, across the universe???  
"John?" Paul's voice, questioning.   
George stood up, gripping the neck of his guitar, a big smile plastered across his face. "Reckon he's already well on his way. How much you had, John?"  
John quickly took the remark as an escape.."Oh...loads...about two or three glasses."  
"John!!!!" Paul's voice was horrified.  
No I haven't, John wanted to tell him, but couldn't....I've only had one. It's you. It's your fault. You are a distraction. But he just smiled at the bassist and shrugged apologetically.

The evening passed pleasantly. They drank, they played cards, and, yes, there were a few girls. Every time John looked at Paul he seemed to be surrounded by them. Typical. But finally it was their bedtime. Brian was fussing around, stressed because of the following day. Two performances now, in cities nearly four hundred miles apart.   
"You will need to be packed up..."  
"We know..."  
"There won't be time to come back and pack.."  
"Yeah..yeah...s'okay Bri..."  
"It does mean being up earlier.."  
"We can do it...."  
"And having handy everything you need..."  
Finally, John silenced the manager. "Shut the fuck up, Eppy...we're big boys now, we can handle it..."

John quietly closed the door behind him as he entered their shared bedroom. Paul...dutiful as always...was carefully folding shirts and putting them into his suitcase, which was open on his bed. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he was squinting through the drifting smoke, an expression John always found endearing..not that he could tell him that. On hearing the door click closed, Paul turned, his lips curving upward in a smile at the sight of John.   
John indicated the open suitcase "Packing already Macca?"  
Paul shrugged nonchalantly. "Thought it might save a bit of time tomorrow...particularly if I oversleep, like."  
John moved stealthily towards him like a predator.  
"What makes you think you might oversleep?"  
Paul's eyes widened. He suddenly looked nervous. "Oh..I..I..dunno..just thought...you know...maybe..."  
John moved in for the kill. He took the shirt out of Paul's hands and dropped it carelessly on the floor. He didn't take his eyes off Paul.  
"John..." Paul stuttered, trying to move backwards but only succeeding in pinning his legs against the bed.  
Swiftly John's arms captured Paul before he could flee, and he caught Paul's lips in a hungry kiss. He felt the bassist squirm within his arms, but he held on for dear life, refusing to relinquish any part of the struggling body. John was strong...probably stronger than Paul, who was more slightly built....and desperation gave strength to his arms, his very being. Finally, after what felt a lifetime but was only a few seconds, he felt Paul sink into his embrace. Next moment, Paul's arms were around him too. He felt a leap of victory at that small but significant step. He deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue into Paul's mouth, sucking....not giving Paul time to grab a breath...more importantly, not giving him time to think...to consider...to analyse...all the things Paul did to excess when left to his own devices. His hunger and desire for the man he held in his arms drove John onwards. He'd waited so long...such a long long long time....His hands slipped to the belt of Paul's jeans, and he felt Paul move. Swiftly, he drew him close again, and fumbled instead with one hand...he felt if he relinquished his hold....Paul would...Paul might....  
"John!!" Paul hissed. John let go of Paul's jeans and pulled the figure back close to him again. Christ...why did he only have one pair of hands? At this particular moment in time he really needed two...one to hold Paul still, the other to do whatever he wanted with. He was so scared Paul would run...would run...if unsure, Paul always ran...run first, think later....Paul's natural reaction. Now Paul was struggling in his arms, trying to pull away. John gripped him tighter, not caring that Paul would have bruises later on that pale skin that others would see and wonder about...he had to stay still...  
"John!! Please!! Please...." the last plea was more of a sob, and John paused, his breathing ragged. He still held tightly to Paul's upper arms, not daring to let go. He drew a shuddering breath. He didn't want to look up. He didn't want to meet Paul's eyes. He didn't want to see rejection. He didn't want......John shut his eyes tight, not wanting to see the expression on Paul's face. He spoke into the darkness.  
"I want you..."  
"But..."  
"I need you..I...I..." he opened his eyes. Paul's face was only a couple of inches away. His hazel eyes were panicked, his lips red and bruised.  
John drew another shuddering breath, and pulled Paul gently towards him. He cupped his hand around the back of Paul's head, twisting his fingers in the soft dark strands.  
"Paul...I...I..." He was relieved that Paul didn't pull away. He could feel Paul's chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He rested his head on Paul's shoulder, and felt Paul's hand inch up his back, rubbing comforting circles.  
"We said.." Paul's voice was soft.  
John nodded. "I know what we said, Paul" his voice muffled into Paul's shoulder. "Saying is easy, doing isn't."  
"John, it's not...if we...people.."  
"Fuck people."  
"It's not that simple."  
"Yes it is Paul" he still spoke into Paul's shoulder, inhaling the scent of the man's body, grounding himself. He felt he could explode. Or maybe implode. Which would be best? At least Paul was here. At least they were talking. At least Paul hadn't run. Keeping his eyes tight shut, John ran his hands up and down Paul's back, feeling the narrow shoulder blades, the ridges on his spine, feeling him, feeling him...remembering...Paul had been young...just nineteen...unsure, nervous, but trusting...trusting of John. Prepared to go through with it for John. The narrow bed. The lamplight through the window of the shabby pensione. Paul beneath him, all wide eyes and long limbs, all angles still, just a boy...just a boy....Tears sprung to John's eyes. The memory was still so clear in his mind. Never had he loved Paul so much as at that moment. It was carved into his memory...something to be pulled out and replayed when times were hard.  
The words had ceased. They clung to each other, wrapped in their own separate memories.  
Finally, Paul drew back, still holding John by the shoulders. John's eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Paul looked at him in consternation.  
"John? Johnny? Please? Talk to me?"  
John stared at the colours his screwed up eyelids produced. Red and green and swirls of purple. "I love you, Paul." The words were torn from him. They took birth in the depths of his being and erupted into consciousness in some nondescript hotel room in Cincinatti.   
He heard Paul gulp. "Johnny..."  
He still wouldn't open his eyes. This wasn't real, so why it wasn't real he could say things. "I do, Paul...always have, always will.."  
He heard Paul sniff...it was a very teary sniff. Finally, reluctantly, John opened his eyes. Paul was looking at him in a weird concoction of love, horror, anguish, and sorrow. Tears were trickling from those gorgeous hazel eyes, dripping down, running off his chin, but he didn't notice...he was too caught up in the moment...  
"It's dangerous...it's wrong...we knew...when we became famous...it's not just you and me..it would affect so many..." Paul was trying to get so many explanations out all at once. He didn't really have to say anything. They'd known, as fame appeared on their horizon, that their illicit trysts would undoubtedly have to end. On his own John would never have had the willpower, but Paul....sensible Paul...the one with his head screwed on...had neatly packaged it all up, put the memories away, tied a red ribbon on the box and added a label that said 'Don't go there'.......while he, John, in his usual haphazard way had bundled everything up only to find it all kept spilling out. Reluctantly, John released Paul. He felt the cold rush in where Paul's warm body had been. His hands felt empty. His heart felt empty. He felt empty. He reached out a trembling hand, and wiped a stray tear off Paul's cheek. He couldn't find it in him to berate Paul. Christ, the poor guy was in no better state than he was. Probably worse. Paul kept his emotions tucked out of sight, but it appeared John had taken a big spoon and stirred them all up. John summoned up a shaky smile.  
"Better get some sleep, hadn't we." He took a step back. And another. Moving away. Moving away from the man he loved. Paul's eyes never let go of him. He was just standing there. After a few more steps, John turned. His bed was behind him. He stared down at the lemon candlewick bedspread.  
"D'you want to use the bathroom first or shall I?"  
He heard Paul sniff. "You...you can."  
Without turning round, John divested himself of all his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and without making eye contact again with Paul strode into the bathroom.  
He met his own face in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks red. "Fuck!" He picked up his toothbrush. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck....."

It was dark. Something had woken him. In his dazed state John thought it might well be the gaping hole he felt inside of him.....so big there was no room for him inside...he must be hollow...hollow John with a vague outline of the person he was. Is. He rolled over and faced the other bed. Paul. Covers pulled right up. A lump in the darkness. But John could hear. Whimpers. Muffled cries.. Paul's pillow was bunched up into a heap, and his dark head was buried, stifling the sounds. John's heart ached. He wanted to bound out of bed. Hug him. Comfort him. But he couldn't...didn't....Paul obviously hadn't wanted him to know..to hear....he rolled back over and screwed his own eyes shut.

21st August 1966

The mid-day concert went off without a hitch, the weather appearing kinder. More than could be said for the Busch Stadium in St. Louis. After a flight of almost 350 miles they landed to yet more weather warnings. They were taken straight to the stadium where they prepared for the eight thirty concert. They all seemed subdued. Brian, watching them anxiously, put it down to the fact they were probably tired. A lunchtime concert, a flight, a brief press conference, another concert. Clothes packed. Clothes unpacked. A flight straight after to New York City. They all moved like ghosts. They'd lost any animation they had. John and Paul in particular. Brian sensed a sadness surrounding them, but he didn't know why, and even less could ask. He ran a hand over his hair. Tired. He was so tired. Couldn't remember when he'd last slept. And Tony, their press officer, fending off the inevitable Jesus questions. Oh God for England again. Is this how the First World War poets felt? That longing for home...for green fields and pastures...for some common sense....Is there a corner of a foreign field that shall be forever England?.....let us just get home safe..please...God...whoever....not leave any bodies over here.  
"Brian?"  
Brian turned, startled. It was Paul. Rarely did Paul approach him. Brian put on a brave face and smiled.  
"Yes Paul? What can I do for you?"  
Momentarily Paul hesitated, then seemed to mentally shake himself. "Are you okay?"  
Am I okay? AM I okay? Am I OKAY?   
Brian smiled again, his face feeling stretched. "I'm fine, Paul, and you?"  
For a moment Brian felt as if the bassist was looking into his innermost being. Then Paul smiled too, but it was a world weary smile. Like someone who's fought and then given up.  
"Er, yeah, fine...I'm okay." A pause, then "It'll be good to get back, won't it?"  
Brian nodded. "It certainly will, Paul, it certainly will."

If ever there was a decisive moment Paul could point to when he agreed to stop touring, this was the one. There hadn't been a particular problem with the concert, other than, again, the heavens opened, and their only shelter was a corrugated tin roof with water dripping off it. They worriedly glanced at their amps. Were they getting wet?  
Shit! Were they gonna get electrocuted? They carried on, their hearts in their mouths. A late night flight to New York was lined up for them as soon as this gig finished.

Ringo peered out into the darkness. Twenty three thousand? Was that the figure? He couldn't hear the others. He could just about see John bobbing up and down in order to keep the beat. The rain was providing a staccato accompaniment on the tin roof that drowned out his own. He was cold, numb fingers holding the drumsticks. I'm Down...he just heard Paul announce. He could see Paul do his usual lying head down on sleeve mime for the last item. Then they were off the stage and into..fuck, what the fuck...what was this? A metal truck, all stainless steel inside. Nothing to hold onto. Nothing to sit on. As it jerked and grinded it's way off the field they were thrown in all directions. They slid down onto the floor but still rolled around.   
"Fuck! Get your boot off me head McCartney" George grumbled, then slid all the way to the back door as the truck turned a corner.  
John was simply mouthing out continual abuse.  
"What the fuck? Fuck? Bleeding piss take...who's fucking idea..."  
As it rounded a corner Ringo fell on Paul who slid into John.  
Paul struggled to his knees. "That's it..that's it." the normal easy going bassist had had enough. "Never again. I'm not fucking touring again."  
George looked at him, wonderment in his eyes. "Can I have that in writing, mate?"  
"Hoo fucking ray" said John "Seen the bleeding light at last.."  
Another lurch, and as one body they slid to the opposite end of the truck.  
"I am so PISSED OFF!!" Ringo moaned.  
"Look on the bright side"  
They all looked at Paul...  
"At least we aren't going to New York in this."  
"Ha ha" said John bitterly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 22nd August1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya guys, so sorry...had lots of gigs come in at the last moment and been so busy I've lost the plot on this. Anyway I'm going to try and move on with it, but I have no idea how...so I'm just going to start writing and hope something comes! Thanks for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. I did do research for this...they did two interviews on 22nd August...one for the usual press, the second was a junior press conference for fans that had been their idea. Also Paul was sick on arrival in New York..probably all the travelling and a messed up body clock...these two items are facts. The rest, folks, is all fiction....

They transferred from the awful armoured truck that they had slid around in into a limo to take them to the airport to fly straight on to New York. They were tired, bruised and battered from being transported in the truck, sweaty from the performance, and feeling completely jet lagged from so much travelling. All their equipment and luggage was being seen to by Nel and Mal. They collapsed into the limo thankfully, too tired, apart from George, to grumble. George hadn't yet let up.  
"Stupid fuckin' idea, shoving us in that"  
Ringo's eyes were already closing and George's voice began to take on a distant aspect, like a radio play fading out.  
"...got bruises all over. Could have broken me wrist.."  
"..yeah, okay, Geo...give it a rest" Lennon's voice showed little patience with the lead guitarist's whinging.  
George subsided a moment, then he started again in a lower tone.  
"D'you mean what you said?"  
Paul, through his tiredness, felt George's piercing stare. He pulled himself back to consciousness. God, he was tired. So tired.  
"Hmm?" was all he could offer...and that was out of politeness.  
"About stopping touring?"  
John glanced swiftly across at the two men. George was still running on adrenalin but Paul had pretty much zoned out. John's lips tightened, and he felt a sudden surge of protectiveness for Paul, though he had no idea where it had come from.  
"Leave him, George...he's fuckin' knackered."  
Paul stirred, surprised at the passion behind John's words. He went to say something, but instead his head fell back against the seat and his eyes involuntarily closed.  
George responded swiftly to John. "You heard him, though, right? He said enough..no more touring. I want that in writing."  
"For Chrissake, Georgie...just give it a rest. We'll talk about it in the morning."  
George's mouth twitched. He wanted it clarified now, before Paul fuckin' McCartney had time to sleep on it, think about it, mull it over, re-consider, and maybe....very likely, knowing him.....change his mind.  
"How far to the airport?"  
John gave a wide yawn as he considered George's question. "Not too far, I don't think."  
"What time do we get in?"  
"Fucking hell, George...whatever you've had can I have some? Where you got all this energy from? Jesus..you ask more questions than Julian." John sighed " We get in somewhere about half three...don't expect fans at the airport at that time in a morning."  
"Good. Don't want 'em."  
John looked up sharply at him. "They are our bread and butter, mate. Without them we'd be nothing."  
"Oh oh .. changed your tune, haven't you? Usually you're a whinging and complaining too...can't go here, can't go there, can't do..."  
"Shut the fuck up, George..just...give it a rest, will you?"  
Sensing John's patience had reached an end, George subsided, but inside he was still churning with anger at how they'd been transported like cattle. That's all he felt now...that he was just an item to be moved around, pushed here, pulled there, answer this, wave to the crowds, smile for the fans. He felt he was growing and developing as a musician, but no-one was noticing it. He wanted to share his interest with Paul, but Paul had John. And they were two towering giants when it came to his own pitiful input. Well...Paul would say it wasn't pitiful, but at the moment he felt it was in comparison with Lennon McCartney works. His mind stewed. He was proud of Taxman on their latest L.P. but he'd not had chance to show it off. They were doing the rounds with much the same music they'd done two years ago. Surely the other three could see that they were going nowhere other than in circles.

George surveyed his surroundings. It was warm and dark in the limo, and Paul and Ringo appeared to be asleep. John, too, had closed his eyes. George sighed and rested his head in his hands. As soon as he could he was going to corner Paul about what he'd said. He wasn't going to let him slip out of that statement. No more touring...that's what he's said...no more touring. George held on to the words as to a mantra.

At the airport they were quickly bundled through check-in and passports. With the exception of George the other three Beatles were acting like zombies. In fact John would later swear that Ringo managed to exit the limo, go through the airport lounge, and enter the plane without once opening his eyes, due to a very concerned Mal keeping him on his feet.  
"So, Paul...."   
The bassist turned his head and blinked slowly at his friend, feeling as if his brain was a few revolutions behind,  
"...do you think, when we get to New York, there's likely to be many fans?" John continued. "After all..." he glanced at his watch.."we won't land till after three."  
Paul opened his mouth to reply but a yawn took over...and it wouldn't stop. He tried to swallow it down, but it just erupted again, forcing it's way out. John smiled at him in amusement.  
"Never mind, Macca...y'can kip on the plane, eh?"  
"Eh, Paul..." George butted in swiftly. John's smile turned to a scowl.  
"Christ, George, not now." he hissed. "I said...we'll talk in the morning."  
A frown creased Paul's brow. Talk? Talk about what? Jesus, he felt...well, woozy, was the best way of describing it. Like he was conscious of having arms and legs but they didn't quite feel a part of him. And he felt sick. Not a going to be sick sort of sick, but a bit unsettled from all the travelling and weird hours and erratic mealtimes. His eyes sought out Ringo, and he could see Mal propelling him in the direction of the waiting aircraft. Bemusedly he thought I want someone to do that to me too...I'm too tired to be bothered.  
Oh! Had he spoken his wish out loud? Someone was behind him...a pair of hands, taking some of his weight. Tiredly, he leaned back on them. A familiar Scouse voice said "Christ, kiddo, I'm not carrying you". John. The corner of Paul's mouth tugged upwards in a sleepy smile.  
"I was hoping..." he whispered. He heard a chuckle. Next moment, he'd been swept off his feet, and to the amusement and entertainment of local passengers, and to Paul's total embarassment, John struggled a few steps across the airport lounge with Paul in his arms before depositing the bassist nearer to the departure doors.  
"There y'go, princess..."  
By now Paul was awake, batting John off even as a blush crept up his neck. John just pulled a face at him.  
"Ah, go on, y' loved it really."  
"John!"  
"Yes, y'did Macca...y' blushing."  
"Am not"  
"Not half..."  
"Alright...alright, boys.." Brian found it hard to hide his own smile at John's antics. God knows, they needed a little light relief after all they'd been through. "Can we get ready to board now? With a little decorum? John?"  
Paul was furiously trying to straighten his rumpled suit, patting his hair. John immediately leaned over and ruffled it.  
Paul flashed him a mock angry frown, but his eyes were twinkling. It warmed John's heart. He'd not seen that twinkle for a while. And whatever went on between them, good or bad, he did not want Paul to lose that twinkle. Life brought them so many complications, twists and turns they'd never expected or even dreamed could exist, but as long as they still had each other.  
"....time for a sleep, then the press conference.."  
Brian talking to him, standing at his right elbow, but for the moment all he was conscious of was Paul, smoothing down his coat, checking his pockets. Feeling John's eyes on him, Paul turned. For a moment their glances locked. John's heart gave a little jolt. Fuck. It was no good. Try as he might he couldn't squash the desire he felt for Paul. He tried to chide himself. You're a married man. You have a child. You're famous. It's illegal. You could get caught. You'd be in trouble. Deep trouble. And Paul...you'd drag him down with you. You can't do it.  
"But I want him..." John spoke the words out loud.  
Brian paused, and looked closely at John. "What?"  
Fuck! Did I say that out loud? Shit...shit..shit.  
"John? What did you say?"  
John thought quickly. What had Brian been going on about? Oh, yeah, press conferences..quick...think quickly...  
"I want him..erm...Paul, y'know, to say something about our, er, our...our new L.P."  
Brian's frown only intensified. He glanced over to see Paul watching this exchange of words from puzzled dark eyes. There was a niggle...Brian found it difficult to ignore..a niggle...something not quite right...John...he was covering up...Paul..John...it wouldn't be the first time Brian had found himself unwittingly caught in a situation he didn't really want to know about. John was lying, though, of that Brian was sure. He saw Paul turn away and the connection was dropped, like a cord being cut. The tension disappeared.  
"The L.P.? I'm sure Paul can talk about it. It depends" Brian attempted a joke "on how long they have to listen once Paul gets started."  
Brian smiled at his own humour, but John wasn't listening. He was still watching Paul. Brian felt a twist in his gut. He knew exactly what John was feeling. Exactly. And it only ever leads to heartbreak.

They touched down in New York just after three thirty in the morning to a total of nine faithful fans waiting for them. Paul gave them an extra special wave and thumbs up.  
"Didn't think anyone'd be here" he explained to an amused John.  
They were ushered through quickly, but had to wait in the lounge for a moment while their bags were located. Ringo still appeared to be asleep.   
"Ciggie?" John offered Paul. Paul shook his head. He was starting to feel really queasy. George, who still had boundless energy, leaned across and took the offered cigarette.  
"I'll have one...ta!"  
"Hey!!" John pulled back. "Go get your own."  
George scowled. Why should John offer Paul one and not him? He wanted someone to stick up for him, point out the injustice. In fact, he wanted Paul to..he'd hoped he would, but Paul hadn't reacted. Simply just leaned his head back on the chair he was sitting on, and wearily closed his eyes. George dug him in the ribs.  
"Paul" he hissed. The bassist didn't respond, so George poked him harder.  
"Paul!"  
"What?" Paul kept his eyes tightly shut.  
"What you said in the truck.."  
"Oh for Chrissake Harrison...just give it a rest." John exclaimed impatiently, his voice slightly raised. A few heads turned, including Brian's. Paul blearily peeled open one eye.  
"WhassamattaGeorge" his words slurred into each other.  
"You said" "Leave it" John and George spoke together.  
Paul shifted uncomfortably. John frowned.   
"Hey..you okay?"  
Paul winced, screwing his eyes shut.  
"You've gone a bit green, like.."  
Paul sat up straighter and took a deep breath. His head was exploding, the lights were too bright, his heart rate was accelerating, and..shit..no..fuck...not here...  
"Come on.." he wasn't aware that he'd stood up, but John's arm was round him propelling him in the direction of the gents. They almost, but not quite, made it.  
He threw up over the clean tiled floor, and again as they made their way to the sink, and again in the sink. He felt clammy, and his legs seemed incapable of supporting him. He was glad of somebody's arms holding him up. Shit! He was so pissed off with this tour.  
"Is he okay?" Mal's voice, concerned.  
"Yeah, he will be. Get us some water, Mal, eh?" John's nasal reply. Paul leaned more heavily onto supporting arms. John tightened his grip, and tried to pass it all off with a joke.  
"Getting to be a habit, this, I reckon, eh Macca?"   
Paul's lids fluttered shut of their own accord. John surveyed him and winced...he was a sickly pale sheen. Paul was usually the one bouncing with health, looking like an advert for Lassie. John couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt that the stress of this tour hadn't helped.  
"Water, John. Here y'go."  
"Haven't got a hand free, mate...I'm holding him up. Can we sit him on a loo? Put a seat down, eh, and I'll get him into one of the stalls. Oh, and someone needs to clean up the, er..." John nodded in the direction they'd entered. Mal picked up.."Yeah, sure, sure...I'll sort that..I'll get someone.."  
"No, not someone. Can you do it? Paul wouldn't want..y'know.."  
Mal understood. "I'll find a mop or summat...don't worry. You okay?"  
John propelled Paul into a cubicle and sat him down on the toilet lid. "Well..there's other places I'd rather be, Mal, but for now, y'know, this'll do. Tell Eppy he'd better not go without us."  
As Mal departed, John held the glass to Paul's lips. "Come on, mate, drink."  
Paul kept his eyes screwed tightly shut as John touched the glass to his lips. The water was cold and refreshing, and he drank it all gratefully. Paul felt, if he kept his eyes closed, everything might just be okay. If he didn't acknowledge anything. Couldn't see anything. Maybe he'd wake up in bed in his own home and all this would be over. Just a dream. He felt fingers pushing aside his fringe. They were soothing, relaxing. He let his mind float. Everything was too much effort. Everything. He wanted to sleep. Just sleep.....He heard a chuckle near to his ear. "Well I've seen you sleep in a few odd places, mate, but this beats 'em all."  
It was quiet. Warm. An enveloping cocoon of silence.   
"Y'okay there, John?"  
"I think he's gone to sleep on me, Mal. Are they loading yet?"  
"Yeah, just started."  
"Reckon y' could give me a hand with Paul? But..discreetly, like. Think he's out for the count.." 

22nd August 1966

Daylight filtered through the blinds. Paul stirred, shifting in his bed. Sunshine. Daytime. Time? Time? He rolled over and saw a clock on the bedside cabinet. 11.47.  
11.47? Shit! He blinked, and slowly took in the details of the room. Boring art prints. Boring carpet. The same standard boring furniture. He stretched languidly, his mind gradually filtering through the events of the last few hours. Where was he? He had no memory of arriving at a hotel, or of...he lifted the covers and peeked down...he was clad in just his boxers....or of getting undressed. Who'd undressed him? How had he even got into this room...whatever floor they were on...memories began to rush back in to his mind as if he had opened the floodgates.  
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty." There was a chuckle. He sat up swiftly, then wished he hadn't as his brain seemed to swing about inside his skull. He groaned.  
"John?"  
"Yup"  
"How did I..here..my..you...where...did you...my clothes.."  
John gave another chuckle. "Do you want to try that again son? Or are you developing an alternative English language."  
Paul just gave another groan and flopped back down. It was much nicer, he decided, lying down, and if John was still in the room then there wasn't an obvious urgency for them to be anywhere. John shifted across to sit on the edge of Paul's bed. He was washed and dressed and ready to face the day, and to Paul's tired eyes he was a welcome familiar sight.  
Paul's lips curved in a smile. "Mornin'" he said huskily, his breath hitching slightly at the nearness of John.  
John's smile was broad, his eyes sparkling. "Morning Macca. How y' feeling now?"  
How was he feeling? Paul tried to process the question. He wriggled his legs further down into the warm bed. Mmm..it was so nice to be sleeping in a real bed. He curled his toes, stretching down as far as he could. He could feel the weight of John pinning down the blankets on the right side of the bed. He felt secure. He didn't try and analyse why. He just did.  
"M'okay. Ta. Thanks, y'know...last night.." Paul couldn't completely recollect what had happened, but he was fairly sure it was embarrassing.  
"It's okay." John gave a little shrug. "S'what mates are for, innit."  
Mates. It sounded odd to Paul's ears. Mates. They'd been more than mates, they'd been.....don't go there, Paul!!! Don't even think about it!!!. Shit...no..no..no.!!   
John sensed rather than saw Paul curl up into himself. He cleared his throat."Er..do you, er...do you wanna cup of tea? I mean, this is America, y'know, but I'll do what I can."  
Paul uncurled slightly. "Hmmm...that would be nice. Thanks. What time we got to be ready?"  
"In about an hour."  
John saw Paul's eyes widen "What? Oh fuck."  
"S'okay. The press conference is here, so we don't have to go anywhere. Your clothes are ready...look..." John pointed to the freshly ironed canary yellow jacket that Paul had worn for most of the tour, and a flowery shirt in a similar shade. "You've only got to get a shower an' make yourself pretty, an' that's not difficult to do, is it."  
Paul batted his eyelashes and stuck his tongue out at John.

George was fidgety. He really needed to collar Paul, but the guy hadn't appeared until it was almost time for the press conference, and John had been attached to his side. He didn't feel he could broach the subject again with John in the vicinity of his hearing. George shuffled his feet, bothered.   
Ringo looked at him strangely, an eyebrow raised. "You okay?"  
"Yeah. Yeah, it's just...y'know, what Paul said. I wanna know does he mean it."  
Ringo's eyebrow went even higher. "Said?" he queried.  
"Yeah..y'know, when we were in the truck an' he said that's it, no more touring."  
Hmm. Yes, Ringo remembered, but he'd not put much thought into it. To him it just sounded as if Paul had been pissed off, which was true for all of them.  
"Well, I dunno. I mean, Paul loves performing, doesn't he. Put him in a zoo an' he'd probably perform for the animals." Ringo thought he was being funny, but a deep frown grew on George's face. If Ringo wasn't taking Paul's statement seriously, then...who was? Except him. He glanced across at the song writing duo, who were deep in conversation with Brian. He felt again that spike of jealousy. He wanted the closeness he'd used to share with Paul when they were boys.  
"Okay, lads, are you ready?" Brian's voice got their attention. "Try and keep it moving...don't be controversial, please " he looked at John as he said this " I know it's boring, I know it's the same questions, but we're nearly there now. Be polite..or at least, try. For my sake."  
John did a Nazi salute "Yes mein herren, votever you say, mein herren."  
"Thank you, John. Okay, in you go, and good luck."  
As they went through the door to be greeted by flashbulbs and cameras and television cameras, George hustled his way to Paul's side.  
"Paul" he hissed urgently. Startled, Paul turned to him.  
"Did you mean it?" George saw a small frown crease Paul's brow, questioning. What? Mean what? "Finishing touring...what you said.." George saw realisation dawn across Paul's face, but next second John had taken Paul's arm and was pushing him towards the seat on his right...the last seat, and sitting next to him, effectively blocking Ringo and George from being next to him. George scowled, his brows drawing together, and slumped into a seat. Fuck.  
"Can I ask you what you think of the Vietnam war?" a reporter asked.  
"We don't like it." John shot back quickly.   
George interjected "We don't like any war..we just don't like it."  
Paul was fiddling with a strand of his hair that was still slightly damp from the shower. God he was bored already. He just wanted to make music.  
"Would you care to elaborate?"  
"We don't like it.." beside him Paul could feel John working up to an impatient response, and he leant in swiftly.  
"We can elaborate in England" he said pointedly. Well, that shut them up. Point taken. John shot him a swift triumphant glance. The reporters asked Ringo a few questions, and Paul's mind drifted again. He was having such difficulty concentrating. But the next question was directed at him.  
"Paul, were you aware a couple of teenage girls have threatened to jump from the 22nd floor of the hotel unless you agree to see them?"  
Paul sat upright quickly, obviously shocked. "What? No, I..I didn't, I haven't...they haven't, have they? I mean..yeah, I'll see them, of course, I mean..God, that's"  
For a normally composed Paul McCartney this was a very disjointed reply. John, glancing sideways at him, could tell he was really concerned. The questioner then went on to say that the police had managed to get the girls rescued. Why ask him that, then, John thought, if you knew they were alright. But he was then distracted by the next question which was about him going to take part in a film, How I Won the War, and leaving behind the other Beatles. The reporter was hoping to make a point of John doing his own thing and maybe signalling the end of the Beatles doing things together, but John simply replied that they had a holiday after this tour and everyone was doing their own thing anyway, so him going off to do a film wasn't going to make any difference to the group.  
Well, in that case, had they been disappointed by the fact there were only nine girls waiting to greet them at the airport?  
Paul shrugged at this question and said at three in the morning they'd not expected to have millions.   
"Paul, I understand you were not very well at the airport...were you airsick?"  
John felt Paul start...this question was a bit too personal. He saw Paul fiddle with the same strand of hair as he tried to deflect the question. "Er, yeah, er..I wasn't too good. Airsick? I dunno..I dunno what it was. I haven't been too good this tour."   
Whoa! There was an unexpected admittance.  
"Now that Paul is the only bachelor Beatle do you find the girls gravitate more to him than they do to the rest of you fellas? How do you feel about that?"  
John snorted "They always did!"  
Ringo added "Yeah!" with a big grin.  
Paul squirmed..he was getting fed up of this, and he swiftly pointed out that the 'I love John' badges had outsold everyone else's.  
George's glower got bigger and bigger. He wanted to be asked something sensible. About his music, or his opinion on something of value, but the questions were all inane, and they were nearly all to John and Paul.   
Finally, finally, it came to an end. All four breathed a sigh of relief. Another one to go, but the next one had been their own suggestion. A junior press conference. It had been arranged by New York radio station WMCA who had invited fans to send in postcards with their name, address and phone number on. The radio station had received over 50,000 entries, and 75 winners had been chosen at random. A similar contest had been held by the official American Beatles Fan Club, and again 75 winners had been chosen, so altogether 150 children were getting to interview the Beatles. Upon their arrival, each child was given a gift bag.  
The four lads were so much more relaxed through this, even if the questions were somewhat mundane and centred around favourite colours, food, makes of car and films. But a few enabled them to express their interests in what they'd been reading and watching, and give their thoughts on America.

Then the rest of the day was their own. Tomorrow was Shea Stadium. It still, in their four minds, was the one. The one that had been the biggest. Had broken all records. The first. Nothing could take that away from them.

"So, Paul?"  
"Hmm?" Paul turned to George.   
"What you said..in the truck. No more touring. You meant it, right?"  
Paul leaned back against the door jamb as he took a cigarette out and lit it thoughtfully, his eyes squinted against the smoke.  
"I..I guess so. I dunno, George. I did at that moment, but...it's a big decision, innit? Not to tour anymore. I mean..nobodies done that..been just a studio band, and made it. I always felt that to be good, really tight, we needed to perform."  
"But we're shite, Paul. Nobody can fucking hear us. I dunno about tight..we're falling apart." George's voice raised in irritation. Christ, he really didn't want McCartney back pedalling on this. Paul shifted uncomfortably. He felt he was being pushed into a corner. The others were fed up too...though none as much as George.  
"But..what would we tell people?"  
"We don't have to tell 'em anything. Just don't ever do another tour. Wait till they ask."  
"But never play again together....?"  
"We play together in the studio."  
"It's not the same, is it? Not..." Paul felt his argument sliding from his clutches. He looked into a future he felt he had no control over. The band had been his life. Him...and John next to him. Performing. He drew deeply on his cigarette. His eyes drooped.  
"I dunno, George. I understand..I do know what you're getting at, but.."  
"But it's you. I'm fed up. John's fed up. Ritchie's fed up, but you want to keep doing it. And if you do, then John won't stop. You are the lynch pin. You agree, and we'll all be happy."  
Paul felt pushed. "John doesn't want to?"  
"He's had enough, Paul. Come on, mate, I'd have thought you were fed up of travelling and sharing rooms by now."  
Sharing rooms. Paul didn't hear the rest of George's rant because his mind had drifted. How many hotel rooms had they shared in their life? Waking up to the sound of John's sleepy breaths, the closeness, the intimacy. That would stop. There could be no more. No more reason to....even if it was only watching each other. A dark hole began to open inside of Paul. No more John.   
Paul felt tears suddenly rise to his eyes. With a muttered "Sorry...I just gotta..." he pushed himself away from the door jamb and George and headed in the direction of the balcony. He needed to be alone. To think. To assimilate. What would their life be? In the future? What would become of him...of him and John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter, but I needed to try and move on with this.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 22nd August/23rd August 1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...still very busy...I'll try and get something up

Paul stood out on the balcony smoking, his mind in a whirlwind of thoughts that were chasing one another down seemingly endless alleyways and reaching no conclusions. George's words kept going round and round...'John's only doing it because of you'. Paul was only too aware of how fed up the others were of touring...even Ringo, though he never complained. George did enough complaining for all of them. Paul tried to see it from George's point of view, and half remembered words of Ringo's came back to him. "Well look at you two...bit difficult to compete with"...or whatever it was Ringo had said. Paul felt a flush of guilt that he'd not payed more attention to George and his writing attempts. He pulled a face at himself...that wasn't a very good way of phrasing it, was it? Writing attempts? Sounded very patronising. He patted his pockets for his cigarettes, and lit another one off the almost finished one in his hands. He drew in the smoke deeply, grinding the discarded one under his boot heel. What had he said to Ritchie the other night? Trying to cut down? They reckon it could give you cancer? He glanced down at the growing pile of nub ends that was slowly growing near to his feet. A breeze caused him to shiver. It was getting cool out but he was reluctant to return to the room knowing that George's eagle eyes would soon pin him down again. He leaned on the railings and watched the sunset above the towering buildings. They didn't have buildings like this in Liverpool, so tall they made you feel miniscule. This was a long way from home. Briefly a pang shot through Paul. A longing to see his dad again. First he couldn't wait to get away, now he wanted to go home. Never satisfied. That's the trouble.  
"It's a long way down, son, don't do it."  
He spun round at the sound of John's voice, for a moment his face open and vulnerable, then swiftly a smile crossed it, covering up. But not quickly enough to cover up the many emotions John had seen briefly displayed across Paul's features. John moved to by his side.  
"Keeping Marlboro going, are we?" John nodded at the pile of nub ends. Paul grimaced.  
"Not good, is it?"  
John wasn't sure if Paul meant the excessive smoking or the situation they were in. He opted for the situation.  
"George been getting at you?"  
Paul nodded briefly, and turned back to lean on the railings. He didn't want to talk about it. Well...he did! He wanted to know what John really felt, but didn't want to hear the answer. He swore under his breath at his indecisiveness. John's ear cocked.  
"Pardon, son?"  
"Nothing. Nothing. I'm just..." Just. Just. Just what? I am here? Not here? Don't want to be here? Don't want to make decisions that will affect the rest of my life? And the lives of those around me? I wish I was...it came suddenly to Paul, like a flash, a memory..I wish I was just starting out again. Just beginning. I don't want to stop...but I want to stop this.  
He was aware of John looking intently at him, waiting. What was he waiting for? Had he asked Paul a question? Paul looked at the cigarette in his hand, checking that it was a ciggie he was smoking and not a spliff. The way his mind was functioning, or not functioning, he could well be running on a cocktail of drugs, except...he wasn't, 'cos if he was he probably wouldn't care. John's eyes were still on him. It was as if they could see through to the turmoil that was going on.  
Paul turned suddenly to John, emotion in his voice. "What's going to happen to us, John?" His hazel eyes were wide, expectant, hopeful that John would have all the answers. In those early years Paul had found a comfort in John's seniority and bull-headed determination to get things done and sorted. Yes he would challenge him, but John had such an assertiveness, such a clear vision of where they were going and what they were doing. Paul wanted that comfort again. His eyes begged John for some kind of resolve.  
What's going to happen to us? John absorbed Paul's question, never losing eye contact. What did Paul mean? Us as in him and Paul? Us as in the group? Us as in the wider picture of everyone connected with them? He saw the plea in Paul's eyes. Someone to take control. To say this is what will be. Inside John shrank. Life was no longer that simple. The Beatles were a multi-million pound business with a lot of people reliant upon them. John no longer had the answer. Slowly Paul's eyes dropped. John saw his adam's apple bob as he swallowed a lump quietly. John did the only thing he could think of at that moment in time. He gently took Paul's elbow, and steered him back into the warmth of the room.  
"Come on...a drink is needed, I reckon. Eh?"   
He saw, but chose to ignore, Paul swipe his hand swiftly over his eyes before he let John propel him in the direction of the room, the bar, the people...no answers...let's just get pissed then...numb it all out....

23rd August 1966

"There's nearly eleven thousand tickets not sold, y'know" George bumped Paul's elbow to get his attention as he delivered the news.  
Ringo leaned in quickly "Yup, but there's still nearly forty five thousand comin' to see us. That's not too bad."   
George scowled, and Paul threw Ringo a quick smile of thanks. Paul was beginning to feel as if George was dogging his footsteps, round every corner, every door, waiting to throw another missile in his direction, all designed to wear Paul down. If George went on much longer like this he knew he would capitulate if only to get him off his back. But to Paul that wasn't a good enough reason. He wanted to consider, to really weigh up the pro's and con's of such a momentous decision.  
"How's y' throat?"  
Paul glanced up at Ringo's question. "Oh...fine. It's fine, I'm okay. Just a bit too much to drink last night, y'know."  
Ringo gave a chuckle. "Bit? Wish I'd had me camera handy...you and John were well bladdered. It takes some skill to sing Long Way to Tipperary in two different keys at the same time."  
Paul's smile widened. "Did we?"  
"Not half, son. How much d'you recall of last night?" Ringo's question had an air of conspiracy about it.  
Paul shrugged. "Not much. Er...nothing, to be honest." He looked expectantly at Ringo.  
"Good!" said Ringo, and sat back up. When no more was forthcoming, Paul threw his drumsticks at him in mock anger.  
"Bastard!"  
Ringo nodded sagely. "Yup. That's me."  
George watched this exchange from unamused dark eyes. His whole life over the last few days had whittled down to one reason of existence...getting Paul to agree to stop touring. And the more Paul tried to avoid him, the more tenacious George became. It was as if they were dancing around each other.  
"Paul..." George tried again. Paul's eyes flicked towards him.  
"There you are..." George saw the relief spread across Paul's face at the sound of John's voice. "Mal thought you were in the loo..."  
"No, I was...."  
"..Not throwing up again?"  
"No!" Paul huffed.  
"Well, after last night anyone could be excused."  
Paul frowned, slightly concerned. He had no memory of the previous night other than John ordering them a bottle of whisky. Had they really drunk it all?  
Ringo gave an amused chuckle at Paul's disconcerted frown. He leaned towards John and in a loud stage whisper announced "He can't remember what he did."  
Paul's eyebrows shot up in alarm. "What did I do???"  
John, smiling, shook his head. "Nothing, Macca, nothing. He's just pulling your leg."  
"Boys....are you ready?" Brian glided to their side, casting an appraising glance over them. "On in about twenty minutes."  
"Christ....I need a pee." John said.  
"Yeah...and me." Paul added.  
Ringo shook his head. "I always wondered why girls went off to the cloakroom in groups. I mean...it's not as if they have anything to hold, is it?"  
"Oi!" John cautioned, "You wanna watch your mouth, Starkey." He turned and simpered at Paul, batting his eyelashes "Come on, dear, let's powder our noses."  
Giggling and wisecracking as they went, John and Paul disappeared in the direction of the locker rooms. The atmosphere cooled.  
Ringo looked at a silent George.  
"Y'alright, mate?"  
"He's not gonna do it, is he" It was a statement, not a question. Ringo rolled his shoulders. He'd been living with this debate for a few days now. He didn't have to enquire what George was on about. It had become almost an obsession.  
"Give him time..."  
"Time!!!" George snorted. "He's had enough fucking time."  
Ringo shook his head. "This is Paul you're talking about. He's not gonna make a snap decision. Christ, George, you've known him longer than me. Look...you know he won't. And the more you push him the more he'll dig his feet in. Just...try and let it be for a bit, yeah? I mean, it's driving you nuts, innit?"  
George sighed and flexed his long fingers. "I jus' don' wanna do it any more Rings" he muttered, eyes downcast.  
Ringo's heart felt torn. He could understand how Paul felt, and he could understand how George felt. They'd functioned so well for so many years because they pulled together. They were a democracy. If one didn't want to, then they didn't. But this...well...Ringo's mind drifted off into it's own space. He didn't write songs. He wasn't an original member of the group. He was just the drummer. If the Beatles finished, what would become of him? Oh...it wasn't the money. He knew he'd be okay for that, if he was careful. It was the prestige. His job shaped him. Made him who he was. He was Ringo...the drummer...the little fella with the twinkly blue eyes and big smile...the cheery chap. Without them, who would he be? Who would HE be?

Having relieved himself, Paul was busy washing his hands...thoroughly, of course, because that had been drilled into him by his mother at an early age...to be sanitary. He glanced at his face in the mirror. Funny, really, how you saw yourself, because that was in reverse. This was not how others saw you. He ran his eyes critically over his hair, tilting his head a little. There was a warm chuckle behind him.  
"Christ, our kid, you really are a bird, aren't you?"  
"Shurrup" he blushed slightly, wished he didn't colour so easily, then blushed even more at the fact he was blushing, knowing John would pick up on it.  
"C'mere" one of John's hands caught his wrist, turning him round, water dripping from his fingertips.  
"I haven't dried me hands yet, John..." He was yanked against John's figure, and a hand stole round the back of his neck, pulling him in close. Before he had time to object, John's lips were on his, demanding. For a second..one brief second..Paul resisted, then with an audible moan gave in. His wet fingers trailed over the back of John's neck, ruffling the auburn curls that grew at the nape.  
"Someone might come in..." it wasn't easy talking with John's tongue down his throat.  
John grunted and backed Paul up against the sink, pushing his leg between Paul's. Paul felt a familiar lurch in the depths of his loins.  
"Christ, John...."  
John was determined. He pulled and pushed until he had Paul tightly trapped, never once letting go of ravishing his mouth. He could feel Paul squirm, panicking, no doubt. He always did, John thought fondly, totally ignoring him.  
"John..." it was hard for Paul to get any words out.."John...please...."  
With an impatient sigh, John backed off, although didn't relax his hold on Paul for one moment.  
"Jesus, Paul, did your mother get you to kiss the blarney stone when you were little, or summat? Don't you ever shut up?"  
Paul was open mouthed, at a loss for a reply. With John's face inches from his he couldn't remember what he'd wanted to say. He blinked, slowly, and John smiled, his eyes taking in every minute detail of Paul's face. When Paul continued to stare open mouthed at John, John shrugged and simply moved back in.  
"Fuck...you are bloody gorgeous and I want you.."he drove hard onto Paul's mouth again, and again Paul began to squirm.  
"John, stop it...don't..."  
Exasperated, John pulled back again. "Fuckin' hell, Paul, you're worse than a sixteen year old virgin...what the hell is wrong?"  
"I..I..remembered what I wanted to say."  
John heaved an enormous sigh. "What?"  
"I can't go on stage with a stiffie...me trousers are too tight and it's uncomfortable and the camera's 'll pick it up."  
John began to laugh....a little snort to begin with, then growing, until it became a belly aching roar. He had to let go of Paul and let it all out. Tears streamed down his face.  
Paul surveyed him, part in bewilderment, part in amusement. He reached out a tentative hand. "John?"  
John had gone quite red. Partly it was Paul's unintended quip that made him laugh, but also a release of the pent-up anxiety that the tour had placed upon him.  
The toilet door swung open, and Neil stood there with a mystified expression. He looked at Paul for an explanation. Paul raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and shrugged.  
"You okay John?" Neil enquired. John just roared louder.  
"Johnny?" Paul reached out for him. John just pointed at Paul and wheezed even louder. Neil smiled. The laughter was infectious.  
"What set him off?"  
Paul coloured. Oh fuck. "Erm..I think...it might be...something I said?...."  
At this John started nodding his head, laughing even louder.  
"Well" Neil smiled " here's summat to sober you up, John....you've got about ten minutes an' you're on."

They ran on to cheers and screams and flashbulbs popping. In all of their minds was the memory of the previous year's concert. It had been such a triumph. Nothing like it had ever happened before. Sharing the mic with Paul, John watched the sweat trickling down Paul's face. He looked alive with the thrill of performing, even if he couldn't be heard. Amidst all the joy, John felt a pang. He wouldn't miss the travelling, the nondescript hotel rooms, the poor food, the inadequate sleeps, but he would miss this...Paul, next to him, sharing the mic, sharing their breaths, sharing the air. This...this was bliss. Nothing compared. Absolutely nothing.  
They were singing Day Tripper when hundreds of fans broke the barriers, surging towards the stage. Fortunately there was plenty of security staff and none of the fans got anywhere near the stage, but John and Paul were encouraging them to run. There was a feeling of joy at this concert, and as Paul launched into their last number, Long Tall Sally, all four Beatles had big smiles on their faces. After this gig they were flying straight off to Los Angeles for a day off. A bit of relaxation before they finished the tour. Heaven knew they all needed it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 24th August 1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the Beatles stayed in L.A. for this night they were visited by the Byrds and the Mamas and the Papas...however, I have pretty much chosen to ignore that fact in favour of a different scenario

They arrived at Los Angeles airport in the early hours of the morning and were driven straight to Curson Terrace in Beverley Hills to the house Brian had rented for a few days to allow them to recuperate. Inevitably there was a welcome committee. Their hearts sank. They were tired and jaded and wanted nothing other than a bed to sleep in. Nonetheless they shook hands, smiled, made small talk, all the time wondering how quickly they could escape. Mal and Neil were busy unloading all their belongings. John ventured off to inspect the bedrooms. Paul's eyes were drawn to a comfortable sofa and he found himself unconsciously gravitating towards it. He slumped down with a sigh, leaned back and let his lids drop closed. Beside him he felt another body slump.  
"Bloody knackered, what about you?"  
Ringo's voice. Paul didn't even bother opening his eyes.  
"Uh huh"  
There was a shift on the cushions as Ringo rummaged in his pockets for a cigarette, his eyes scanning the room. There was a group of attractive beauties obviously brought in for the lads pleasure. They were watching anxiously from where they huddled up a corner.  
"Girls, Paul" Ringo hissed, finally extracting his cigarettes from his trouser pocket.  
"Uh huh"  
Ringo gave a bemused smile.  
"I remember the days you'd a been up their skirts faster than a ferret after a rat."  
"Uh huh"  
Ringo shook his head, and lit his cigarette. "Rather limited vocabulary tonight, son."  
"'m knackered, Ritch."  
"Don't fancy a bit of totty then?"  
Paul yawned. "No..not really. Haven't got the energy."  
"Christ, twenty three and you're finished."  
"Twenty four" Paul corrected.  
"Oh, yeah. Twenty four. Figures. Old and past it now."  
Although Paul kept his eyes tight shut, his lips curved in a smile.  
"Shurrup."  
"Anyway, you're being ogled."  
Paul blearily peeled one eye open to meet the intense stare of a pretty brunette. He groaned quietly, and let his eyes fall shut again.  
"Too tired. You have her."  
Ringo chuckled. "What makes you think I've more stamina than you? Christ..when I first met you in Hamburg you were chalking up how many each night on top of eight or more hours performing."  
"That was then. This is now."  
"Very profound, McCartney."  
Paul snuggled further down into the comfortable sofa, letting the conversations going on wash over him. "Hmm. Profound is my middle name." He yawned again, and began to drift.

"Well, I want to have that one."  
"Why? I saw it first."  
"Because it'll suit me and Paul."  
"What about me and Ritchie? Maybe it'd suit us too. I mean, what d'you want with a balcony?"  
"What d'you want with one? Eh?"  
John and George's bickering voices entered the room and conversations paused. Brian cleared his throat anxiously.  
"Erm..is there a problem? You don't have to share rooms, you know. There's plenty of space."  
John looked at Brian as if he was stupid. "How can Paul an' me write songs if we're in different rooms?"  
Paul felt Ringo nudge him. He sighed. This was probably a 'rescue the situation before it turns nasty' nudge. Paul forced his eyes open to see a very irate Lennon a few feet away from him, George standing at his shoulder, neither willing to back down. It's funny, Paul mused to himself, when you're tired and cooped up together how little things that you would normally laugh at can set you on edge. Ringo nudged him again.  
"Paul" John almost bellowed his name, having suddenly spotted his song-writing partner sitting on the sofa " Get your stuff and come bagsy a room."  
George's eyes bore into him. Paul gathered all his remaining strength and stood up, his jacket crumpled. He saw the pretty brunette perk up. Fuck. Well...no...no fuck, really. And George...what should he say? He was stepping on eggshells here. He sidestepped John slightly.  
"Y'okay, Geo? Did you want that room?"  
John's mouth dropped open. George, too, was taken aback.  
"Paul!!!" John objected.  
Paul turned to him calmly. "Honestly, John, I don't care where I sleep as long as it's got a bed in it. I'm fucking knackered."  
"Paul, 'ere's your suitcase." Neil slid a brown case in Paul's direction, and Paul picked it up. He smiled benignly at a dumbstruck John.  
"Just show me where we're sleeping so I can get me kit off, would y'?"  
Into John's hyperactive mind formed a picture of a naked McCartney. John swallowed, and simply propelled Paul in the direction of the bedrooms, leaving the one with the balcony for George. George beamed a big smile at Ringo. He couldn't believe he'd got the better room. Ringo stood up, pocketing his cigarettes.  
"How did he do that?" Ringo whispered to George.  
"What?"  
"Paul? How did he get John to back down?"  
"Dunno" George shrugged, " but come and see our room."

Something was tickling his nose. He muttered and shifted, rolling over in the bed. Now something was tickling the back of his neck. He slapped his hand down on it hard, and met the fingers of another hand. There was a chuckle.  
"John. 'm tired still. What y' doing?" Paul mumbled into the pillow that was so soft he just wanted to hug it all day and dream.  
He could feel John's breath on his neck as he replied "Tryin' to wake you up."  
"Go 'way"  
"Can't!"  
"Why?"  
"It's my room too."  
Paul sighed and gave up any hope of being able to hold on to his dream world. He rolled over in bed to find John hovering over him.  
There was a beaming smile on John's face, and as their eyes connected Paul couldn't help but respond.  
"Mornin'" John greeted him.  
Paul wriggled further down into the bed. That was the best night's sleep for ages. He languidly stretched, almost pushing John off balance as he did so.  
"Morning. Mmm. Slept well. What's the time?"  
John glanced at the alarm clock. "Nearly mid-day."  
Paul stretched his arms above his head, spreading his fingers. "Amazing...a day with fuck all to do."  
"Hmm, yes, well...Brian has a string of visitors organised, y'know."  
John saw Paul's face drop slightly. "Oh no. Who?"  
"Well..one is Derek Taylor"  
Paul brightened up again. "Ah..be great to see him. He's doing well over here. Busy, I gather.."  
"Yeah, and with him he's bringing the Byrds and the Mamas and Papas."  
"Cool. Well, I don't mind them. " He shifted onto his side, leaning up on one elbow. They were so close to each other they could smell one another's sweat....not in a repulsive way...in an oh so familiar way.  
"An' there's gonna be a party tonight...lots of guests.."  
"Girls?" Paul cocked an eyebrow.  
Girls. Oh girls yeah. Trust Paul to think that. John sat up slightly, hiding his disappointment at what was, after all, Paul's normal reaction.  
"Yes, Macca, there'll probably be girls."  
Paul had picked up John's shift of mood. He fastened his fingers round John's wrist.  
"For both of us, yeah?"  
"You suggesting a foursome?"  
"Maybe..."  
John tried to reciprocate. "Well, I guess..."  
How could he say it? He'd got Paul here, right in front of him. John had even taken the precaution of locking the doors, just in case. Just in case. His eyes shadowed, his mind drifting. He felt Paul's fingers tighten around his wrist, and saw a small furrow appear between his eyebrows. Those stupid fucking girls eyebrows.  
Paul's voice was soft. "What's up?"  
John clenched his teeth. What was up? How long did he have to listen to John's tale of woe? And where did he begin? How did he begin? I love you but I can't tell you. I want you but I can't have you. And even if I could once would never be enough. You are like a drug, and the only way I can get through this life is to not imbibe. Once I have partaken I'm gonna want more...and more...and...  
Paul's lips touched John's forehead. John took a sharp gasp of breath, his eyes shooting up to meet Paul's. He wasn't even aware that Paul had sat up, the sheets pooling around his naked body. Paul gave a smile that bordered on the hesitant and moved in again, more determindly this time. Their lips met, and John rejoiced in the moistness, the familiarity as he swirled his tongue round Paul's. It was as if they'd never stopped. Unable to help himself, he slipped his hand around the back of Paul's neck, pulling him closer in. Those hairs at the back of his neck, fine and silky, just the same. It was as if it had been only yesterday. Everything. Everything was achingly familiar. There was a groan....  
"Oh fuck..." Paul pulled back, and John wanted to chase him...didn't want to stop "I need a piss really badly."  
He hadn't objected! He hadn't said no. John's heart sang for joy. He gave a little chuckle. "Well, better go, then, but, erm..." as Paul swung his legs out of the bed John indicated his aroused state "..good luck with that. You'd better think of something horrible to get it down first."  
Paul grimaced. "Crap! Yeah..I'll, er, think of summat." With a cheery grin he disappeared into the bathroom. Smiling, John lay back down on Paul's bed, enjoying the warmth he'd left behind, the familiar musky smell. Beyond the door he could hear voices, but he ignored them. This morning was his and Paul's. Anyone ask, they'd been songwriting.  
John heard the loo flush, then Paul came out, drying his hands on a towel. Always so sanitary, our Paul. He hesitated slightly at seeing John occupying his bed, then gave a slight shrug and moved back in. John shifted over, and Paul stretched out by him.  
"Better?"  
"Hmm...the first piss of the day, eh?" Paul smiled.  
John wasn't giving him thinking time. He swiftly leaned over and captured Paul's lips with his. He didn't want to give Paul thinking time. He felt Paul shift slightly beneath him, and he applied more pressure. Of it's own accord his hand travelled the length of Paul's body, across his hip bone, into the tangle of curly hair and the silkily soft shaft that nestled there. He felt Paul jump in his arms, and groan without their lips parting "Fuck John". Fuck..yeah...that was what John had in mind. He was aware of his own arousal, but he put all his concentration on Paul's, gently stimulating. Paul responded swiftly. John hid a smile even as they continued to kiss. Always randy, this one. Always up for it. He felt moisture at the tip and knew Paul was becoming swiftly aroused. Inwardly John was surprised that Paul hadn't objected, hadn't raised moral dilemmas. Maybe it was because he was so relaxed after a good night's sleep. Oh! Oh!! John gasped in shock and pleasure. Now Paul's fingers were upon him, stroking and...John groaned....Christ, this was so good. He'd forgotten how skilled Paul's long fingers could be. His breath was getting ragged, and so was Paul's. Paul broke off slightly, his eyes dark, his face flushed, tugging at John..  
"Down..lean..come on. On your side..I wanna..." Paul was incoherent, but John understood. He lay down so they were facing each other, and now Paul's hand was against his, and they were stroking and palming each other, their wrists colliding, their fingers slick. They were so close to each other, eyeball to eyeball, watching one another for every move, every feeling, every emotion. John felt the burning begin in the pit of his loins, and knew from Paul's sudden tensing that he was probably at the same point..  
"John..John, I'm gonna..." John silenced him with a kiss, held onto him as his body arched, felt the hot sticky fluid between their hands, and he followed, his own orgasm coating their stomachs, their arms. He heard Paul gasp, and he relaxed his hold, never letting go. He was aware of Paul's body, it's many angles, it's curves, places he was soft, places he was hard....he held him...this..this was what he had craved for...this was what he had missed. As Paul flopped back on the bed, John leaned his head down on Paul's chest, listening to the heartbeat that was pounding away. In the midst of his euphoria, John had a sudden pang of grief...one day this heart beat would cease. One day it would be no more. Neither would his. He gripped Paul hard, making him flinch slightly. He didn't want to face life without Paul. Into the darkness...he would have to be the first to go. A blackness came over John. Beside him, he felt Paul watching him. He turned to meet questioning dark eyes.  
"John? Johnny?"  
A tear trickled down John's cheek. He swiped it away impatiently, but another took it's place...and another...  
"What...what's wrong? John...please..."  
John shook his head. How the fuck could he explain? Don't die, Paul. Not before me. Don't leave me.  
He felt Paul's arms circle him, pulling him close, and he sobbed out his grief on the chest of his best friend, who asked no questions, just held him.

"What time d'you call this?" Ringo jokingly looked at his watch, which was not showing a correct time anyway due to the many time zones they'd been travelling through.  
Paul beamed at him, looking scrubbed and fresh from the shower. "Er...lunchtime?"  
Out the corner of his eye Paul felt George glance over at him and John.  
"A good sleep, I assume."  
Paul's smile became even broader. "Oh yeah. The best I've had for ages."  
Ringo glanced at John who hovered silently at Paul's shoulder. He'd not spoken a word, and looked thoughtful, lost in his own world.  
"Y'okay John?"  
John started. "What? Oh yeah. Ta."  
Ringo frowned but chose to ignore John's somewhat strange mood.  
"So..." Paul rubbed his hands together cheerily " ..what's on the menu?"  
"What d'you mean?" Ringo queried " Food, fuck or fun?"  
"Well...er, yeah...any, really. Food first, though."  
"The kitchen's that way" George pointed through an arched doorway " well-stocked fridges, help yourselves. Friends arriving in a couple of hours, party later...."  
Paul nodded his thanks at George and tugged a somber Lennon behind him. Ringo and George watched their departure, then exchanged puzzled glances.  
"What's gone on there then?"  
George shrugged. "Don' ask me. Never understood 'em. Used to think I did but they've got weirder over time."  
Ringo could hear their murmured conversation in the kitchen and the sound of cupboards being opened and closed. Sometimes he felt out of the loop of what was going on. Sometimes he wondered. Sometimes he wandered in his mind in areas he maybe shouldn't. George's expression was unreadable. Did he wonder? Or did he know? Songwriting? Hmm...Ringo couldn't remember the last time John and Paul had done songwriting on a regular basis when on tour. However John always used that as an excuse for them sharing a room together. Ringo tried to pluck up the courage to ask George, but then realised he didn't know what he was asking. Well...maybe he sort of did but wasn't sure how to phrase it. He found George was watching him with an amused expression.  
"Spit it out, Ritch."  
Ringo coloured. "Spit what out?"  
"What you want to say. Y' wondering, aren't y'?"  
Ringo felt uneasy. His tummy had butterflies. He weighed up the pro's and con's quickly. Did he really want to know? Was it something he could live with or would it forever affect how he thought of John and Paul? Maybe some things were best left alone.....  
"I hate American food" Paul came waltzing back in, a plate of bread and jam in his hand, and the moment was broken.  
"No" Ringo spoke to George, answering his question, but Paul stopped, perplexed, thinking Ringo was talking to him.  
"I do. Nothing's...right. Sausages are hard as bullets, tea comes in bags, no decent cereal....I miss home."  
John was at Paul's heels, absently chewing on a hunk of bread, his eyes filmy and vacant. George peered closer at him. Had he taken something? Was that what they'd been up to in that room for the last few hours? Yet Paul's breezy demeanour contradicted that. John was silent, like a well-behaved puppy at it's master's heels, following behind Paul wherever he went.

In actual fact, John was ecstatic, but he tucked it away, deep, deep inside him. He'd just held Paul in his arms. His mind could think and focus on nothing else. The smell, the feel of the man. It was like a drug that had got inside him and, like any drug, he wanted more, therefore he trailed along at Paul's heels, ignorant of everyone and everything else around him, anxious not to let Paul out of his sight, hopeful that they might...just might...end up back in the bedroom at some point in the day. He didn't question why Paul had succumbed...he didn't want to go there....he didn't want any doubts to spoil this moment. He was currently bathed in a euphoric post-orgasmic glow, and that was how he wanted to remain. Thoughts of returning home, of his family, were not allowed to intrude. No tomorrow, no yesterday, just here, now, with Paul. That was all he wanted.  
George watched him with curious eyes. He never left Paul's side, and if Paul went to the bathroom, John would follow. Paul himself displayed no unusual manners. He was smiling and charming to all their guests as they arrived, greeting Derek Taylor with a firm hug and enquiring about his welfare and business. Beside Paul, John seemed almost morose, exchanging few words with anyone and then only if really necessary, but he wasn't morose,,,he wanted to keep that special net that he'd mentally thrown around him and Paul and he didn't want anyone intruding. He wanted to be left alone to replay the scene in his mind, to dwell in his memory. The fact that other people were casting odd glances at him he was totally unaware of. There was a whisper going round...an assumption that maybe he was tripping? Had taken something? If Paul was aware of the whispers he gave no sign. He simply made sure John was provided with food and drink and space to remain at his side if he stopped to converse with someone. One of the guests picked up a guitar and began playing. Inevitably Paul gravitated to the music, adding a harmony, finding the chords on the piano; someone else began drumming with their fingers on a table and Ringo, not to be outdone, picked up a couple of wooden spoons as improvised drumsticks. The afternoon passed pleasantly, drifting from one song into another, various guests adding parts, or dropping out to listen, as the sky began to colour a vivid red as the sun set. Someone was passing round a joint, then it became two joints, then three ... then it seemed most people were smoking, and Paul began improvising on the piano, searching for an elusive tune that lay somewhere under his fingertips as the weed spread through his body, causing him to relax. The pretty brunette from the night before materialised at his side, her hopes much higher tonight of snaring the 'cute' Beatle, her smile dimpled and inviting.  
Paul smiled back at her, squinting his eyes through the drifting smoke. He felt lazy...pot always had this effect on him. Benevolent towards everyone but lazy. He became aware of an arm snaking around his neck, and a breath in his ear. For a moment he thought it must be the girl, but then he realised she was still standing in her original spot, looking at him, although her smile had disappeared. Odd! She must have very long arms, Paul thought stupidly, his brain not quite catching up with common sense.  
"Paul...Paulie..." Whoa. That tickled his ear. He turned to find John right behind him..oh..HIS arm around Paul's shoulders, HIS breath in Paul's ear. He smiled at John beatifically.  
"Hey, Johnny...y'okay?"  
John leaned closer in, his breath warm in Paul's ear "D'you fancy a quick break? Upstairs like?" John had been extremely circumspect and was well in control of his actions, hoping that a pot mellowed McCartney might be open to further adventures. The words tickled Paul's ear, creating a stir somewhere in his nether regions. He turned on the piano stool, almost losing his balance, but John swiftly righted him and supported him as he stood shakily on his feet.  
"I've, er, been smokin' a bit..." Paul admitted in a cautious but very audible whisper to John, as if imparting a secret.  
John smirked "Yeah, I know you have, love...let's get some fresh air, eh?"  
The brunette glowered openly at John as he swept past her with his arm firmly around Paul's shoulders. Paul had forgotten her anyway. A few curious eyes watched their departure, including George. His lips tightened. Fucking Lennon again. He still hadn't managed to get a decision off Paul about quitting touring. It seemed to George that John hadn't left Paul's side for days.

John steered Paul up the wide staircase. Puzzled, Paul turned to him.  
"There's no fresh air up here, Johnny."  
"No, but it'll be quiet, and I'm gonna open a window in our room so we can watch the sunset."  
Sunset. Oh, that sounded nice. Paul leaned back slightly into John's arms. "Mmm...sounds good. Have we got a drink?"  
"Yup, certainly have". That was one thing John had made sure of. Get Paul nicely bladdered. Should be in for a good time.  
"We're in Seattle tomorrow, y'know" Christ! Did this lad's mind never stop thinking about work?  
"Yeah, I know we are. That's ages off yet. Let's have a drink and watch the sun set over L.A. for now, eh?"  
Paul's lashes fluttered closed briefly, and his feet almost stopped climbing the stairs. John tugged him on impatiently. Don't go to sleep on me, Paulie, I have things planned. For  
Chrissake don't go to sleep. John finally threw open the door to their lavish room, steered Paul towards the bed, which he dropped onto with a sigh, and moved across to the windows, opening them wide. The scent of flowers drifted in on the evening air. John breathed deeply of it. He hadn't realised how cloying the atmosphere downstairs was. He moved over to the small drinks cabinet and poured them each a glass of whisky, making sure there was twice as much in Paul's as his, then continued over to the bed. Paul had stretched out languidly, having kicked off his shoes. John smiled to himself. Wherever they were Paul always discarded footwear as soon as it was acceptable to do so. He nudged Paul over, and held the glass slightly out of reach, forcing Paul to sit up for it. Oh yes! Johnny boy had this all worked out.  
"Mmm...ta, Johnny. Nice."  
John looked fondly at Paul. "Yeah, it is, isn't it. The simple pleasures, eh?"  
"'m not simple..."  
"Didn't say you were, Paulie, I was referring to the drink."  
"Oh!" Paul took another sip. The warmth of it burnt a trail down his throat and mixed with the pot he'd smoked. He felt as if his body was floating. Somewhere in his head a sensible cell niggled. "I probably shouldn't have too much...I smoked quite a lot."  
Demon John swept in quickly to squash any sensibility. "Oh, it's only a drop."  
"Mmm. Only a drop."  
John's smile widened. "It won't hurt you."  
"No, it prob'ly won' hurt me." Paul tipped the remaining amount down his throat and held out the glass to John. John hesitated before he took it and re-filled it, putting even more in this time. He didn't want to be responsible for Paul either a) falling asleep on him or b) throwing up, which, allowing for the fact he was a bit of a lightwieght when it came to holding alcohol, was very likely. John squashed down these thoughts, and passed the glass to Paul.  
"'s a nice sunset.." Paul indicated the windows with a vague wave of his hand that was clutching the glass, and a drop of whisky splashed out. "Oh...whoops..might need some more."  
John felt awkward.."Well...not too much more..you'll be sick.." Fucking hell! Paul was succumbing to the effects much faster than usual. Had he smoked some particularly pungent weed?  
"I think you might have had enough, son.."  
"Johnny!" Paul whined, his eyes focussing somewhere over the back of John's head. He hiccuped loudly, and laughed at himself. John smiled, and fondly pushed the dark hair out of Paul's eyes that had fallen in a very rakish manner. John loved watching him come apart like this.  
"One more, then I'm getting you ready for bed.."  
Paul frowned, uncomprehending.."But..but it's only...only..." Actually he didn't know what time it was. Maybe John was right. Maybe it was bedtime. He took the glass John offered him, and knocked it back in one go, the ice clinking against his teeth. Whoa..the room swung round in a peculiar way...Paul gasped, clung onto John's hands, and looked up at him with confused dark eyes.  
"I think I've had enough."  
John chuckled. "Yup, I'd agree with you there, son. Come on, let's get you out of your things."  
With a groan Paul flopped back on the bed, idly aware of John's fingers unbuttoning the floral shirt he wore. "Thas'nice..."  
John raised an eyebrow. "What?"  
Paul's hand waved in the air. "That..'m hot..."  
"Oh, right. Well, don't worry, soon have this off you..'ere, sit up for me, eh? Come on.." John yanked Paul's floppy body upwards, peeled off the shirt, and let him fall back onto the pillows.  
Paul yawned widely. "Reminds me..when I was little...." John paused, waiting, but no more came. He could see Paul's lids drooping.  
John's hands moved to the belt of Paul's trousers, swiftly unbuckling.....Paul was so relaxed John panicked for a moment he'd gone to sleep.  
"Oy, Macca, don't fall to sleep on me..."  
A beautiful smile spread across Paul's features. "No, 'm not...not..yet.."  
John anxiously tugged down the zip and in one swift move pulled down trousers and underwear. He paused for a second to admire the long lean body before swiftly divesting himself of his own clothes, throwing them in any direction in his haste. Next moment he was lying beside Paul, running his fingers over the smooth chest. Paul was humming...fuck, did he never stop composing music? Even in a comatose state tunes were running through his mind. He showed no resistance to John's amorous ventures, although, to be honest, he wasn't particularly showing attention to anything. A pang of guilt shot through John...should he really be doing this? Paul really wasn't with it...but John squashed it down. How many chances in their life did they have to do this? How many opportunities were left to them? And Paul, this morning, well...he'd made the first move. John assuaged his guilty conscience, and his fingers drifted lower down Paul's body, followed by John's tongue, trickling a trail. He heard Paul moan gently, like a half breath. John buried his nose in the black pubic hair, breathing heavily into it....Paul's legs twitched. He could be so ticklish. John played a game of it, and soon Paul was squirming, too tired to object, small giggles escaping. John swiped a tongue around Paul's semi-erect cock, and suddenly Paul's squirming stopped. He heard a slight "fuck" emitted, and Paul's hips arched, as if searching for more of that pleasure. John bobbed his head down, taking him all in. He was suddenly surprised when Paul thrust with no small amount of urgency, hitting the back of John's throat and almost choking him. John pulled back swiftly, and glanced up. Paul's eyes were dark, almost feral, hooded like a bird of prey, silent, watching. John smoothed his fingers over the long white thighs. "Bit feisty there, son, eh? Give me time.." Paul didn't react..his eyes remained fixed on John, dark, waiting. It made John think of a beast about to pounce. John bobbed his head again, keeping firm hold on Paul's thighs, keeping him still, preventing him from startling John again like that. As he worked he could hear low moans from Paul's parted lips, the odd word "fuck" "shit" "Johnny...." ....John smiled as his lips fastened tighter round Paul's cock...then suddenly Paul's fingers were in his hair, on his head, forcing him to stay down there and no matter how hard John tried he couldn't prevent Paul from thrusting his hips in an attempt to seek yet more pleasure....the thrusting became more urgent, and suddenly Paul released John's head, calling a warning.."John, John..sorry...gonna..ooohhhh" John swallowed swiftly what he could, and turned his head away quickly to be hit by yet another stream of hot fluid...then another..and...Jesus...Paul was groaning in ecstasy, his eyes half shut as wave after wave hit him. Finally, exhausted, he slumped down, a smile curving his lips.."Christ, John, that was..was.." John captured his lips in a kiss, and Paul could taste himself on John's tongue. His eyes sparkled sleepily "...amazing..." He finished as John pulled away. Paul felt the pull of sleep after such an awesome experience, but John had other ideas. This was why he wanted a relaxed Paul, a sleepy Paul, a can't be bothered to fight you Paul. He licked a trail down the smooth chest, pausing at the now limp member, then gently parted Paul's legs. He felt a jerk of surprise, of hesitation. John moved swiftly, below the balls, licking along the perineum until he reached Paul's entrance. He swirled over it greedily with his tongue, and felt Paul's cock twitch in response.  
"John?" The voice was sleepy "John, what y'doing?"  
He peered up through Paul's legs. "Nothing, son, just relax." His tongue probed gently and he heard Paul groan.  
"John..I..I'm.not..sure..." John ignored him and continued to lap at his entrance. Finally, coating his index finger with saliva, he carefully pushed it in. It was as if a jolt of electricity went through Paul and he partly shot up, suddenly awake. "Ow..fuck, John, what y'?..."  
"Ssshh..." John hushed "..just relax..."  
Uncertain, Paul allowed his body to flop back down. After all, he reasoned, fair was fair...he'd just been given the most amazing blow job...so if John wanted to..to...Alarm bells began to ring in Paul's hazy brain.  
"John..." John tutted to himself, and began to move his index finger around, searching for that magic spot that would shut Paul up..Ah ha...Paul suddenly moaned, but in a good way. John pressed again and Paul's hips gave an involuntary buck. Carefully, so, so carefully, he added another finger, gently stretching. He could feel Paul tensing at the intrusion, but whenever John picked that up he would pause until he felt Paul relax again. Slowly, slowly, he felt Paul give in to him...the body beneath him became supine, as if drowsing, which, thought John with a swift glance at his partner, he probably was if the whisky had done it's work. Paul's head was splayed back on the pillow, dark hair in all directions, his eyes half-lidded, his lips parted, breathing heavily but slowly. John carefully crawled his way back up Paul's chest, planting butterfly kisses as he went, careful to position his hardened cock as he did so. As he entered Paul he felt the body beneath him tense. Paul's eyes shot open, and he was surveying John from glazed eyes.  
"What...wha'..." the words were slurred. John tenderly pushed some hair out of his eyes.  
"Ssshh..s'okay. It'll be okay. It's only me..."  
Paul was struggling to stay awake, his body fighting to cope with a mixture of drink and drugs. John pushed further in. Paul's complaint was murmured now, incoherent. John set up a steady rhythm. He'd wanted this for so long...he couldn't remember the last time...Jesus, it must be years...probably Paul's bedroom...just as fame was coming over the hill towards them...sweeping everything away in it's path...John felt Paul's insides close around him, pulling him in. John groaned...Christ, how he'd needed this. Longed for it. Hoped every day for it. Following Paul around, trying to ignore him, trying to ignore the pull he felt....what a losing battle that had been....He ran his fingers through the soft black hair, remembering it's texture, trying to commit every second to memory in case it didn't happen again...then he came, releasing himself into the body of the man beneath him, pouring into him all the love he felt, all the desire, all the pain. He collapsed on Paul's chest, aware of his ragged breathing. He drew gulps of air, filling his lungs. The same perfume scented night air filled the room. John lifted his head, gazed out at the darkening sky, then dropped his gaze to Paul beneath him. The younger man was fast asleep, lips slightly parted. John shook his head. "Well, did the earth move for you, darling?" he quipped to himself. He rolled off, settling at Paul's side. Downstairs, he could hear the party still going on. Would they have been missed? Oh yes, John had no doubt whatsoever they would have been missed, but did he care? No, not one bit. He tightened his hold around Paul's body, breathing in the familiar musky smell, and let his eyelids close.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25th August 1966

John woke some time in the night. He felt warm, cocooned, relaxed....he was still half-asleep but at the same time couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so happy. He didn't know why.....his brain had not yet caught up with his body, which was nestled comfortingly somewhere in some bed in some place. In a dreamlike state he searched his mind for what when why and who...oh...yeah...he smiled in his happy daze...Paul...yeah, Paul. He rolled over in the bed and snuggled back down, nuzzling his nose into the pillow they shared. A sudden noise flung him rudely into the present, and with a jolt he realised Paul was no longer beside him. He sat up in bed, frowning, then heard the sound again...oh crap!...someone retching..the light glimmering under the bathroom door...fuck! He felt a pang of guilt which he tried to quickly squash down, and flung his legs out of bed, grabbing his dressing gown as he did so, and steeled himself to head to the bathroom. After all, he was frantically trying to reason with himself, like a child shifting the blame, Paul did happily partake of the offered whisky. He could have said no..he could have refused. John took a deep breath, and swung the door open.  
Paul was draped over the toilet bowl, not a stitch on, his head leaning on his arms. At John's entrance he glanced up, his eyes bloodshot and his hair in disarray. John took in the somewhat unhealthy pallor. He took a hesitant step forward.  
"Paul?"  
Paul's brow furrowed, and he glared at John with as much strength as he could summon up.  
"Fuck off!"  
John paused, considering. Paul didn't mean it, did he. Did he?   
"Can I ..can I help.."  
"It's your fucking fault..." Paul didn't hold back. "Did you set out to get me pissed? Because if you did..." A spasm crossed over Paul's face, and he turned his head quickly. John winced at the sound of Paul heaving. He was pretty rough. He took another step nearer.  
"Paul, let me.."  
But Paul had got second wind now. His eyes were furious, burning into John from where he knelt, spitting like a wild animal that had been cornered.  
"You got me pissed so you could fucking fuck me.." Paul's voice was loud enough to carry. He was so angry he didn't pause to consider that fact. He verbally turned on John.  
"Of all the mean things.."  
John tried to calm him. "You..you didn't object.." John stammered, his happiness and contentment suddenly dissolving in the face of Paul's rage.  
"Object? " Paul's voice went an octave higher. " You didn't give me chance to fucking object...how could you, John? I was spaced out me mind...shit.." Paul turned his head, and John winced as Paul emptied the contents of his stomach. He heaved a couple of times, then knelt back, swiping an arm impatiently across his mouth.  
"Paul, I wouldn't have.."  
"But you did..you fucking did...That's so..so..." Paul's voice was breaking in it's anger, but he'd not finished. John moved nearer, desperately wanting to offer help, guilt and remorse filling every part of his being.  
"Paul...Paul, love..."  
"FUCK OFF...just FUCK OFF and FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE..."   
John backed off slightly, wincing at the volume Paul managed to reach. From the other side of the bathroom wall there came a muffled thumping, which was echoed immediately on their bedroom door. A voice, hardly discernible, "What's going on? What's up?"  
"Paulie.."  
"I'm not your fucking Paulie.." Paul was red-faced and John couldn't remember ever having seen him so angry."You did that deliberately, didn't you. You GOT ME PISSED so YOU COULD...YOU COULD...I HATE YOU!!!!! I FUCKING HATE YOU....I would never, NEVER....EVER do ANYTHING like...like...th.."Paul's voice broke in a strangled sob.There came another hammering on the door and a shouted "shurrup" from the room next to their bathroom...John vaguely registered that was Ringo and George's room.  
"Paul" John corrected himself swiftly...endearments were obviously not in order at this present time.."Paul, let me help you.."  
Paul threw the nearest thing he could find at John, which being the flannel was completely unsuccessful as a missile.  
"GET OUT" Paul's eyes were dark, hard, glaring at John "Just get the fuck OUT and LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"  
John took a moment to consider, then simply moved in, pulling Paul to his feet, gripping on tightly to the naked sweaty body. Paul struggled feebly for a moment, trying to push John off him, but he had no strength left. He batted ineffectually at John's chest, his head spinning from the fact he'd been yanked to his feet.  
"Let me go, just..let me.." Jesus, the room was turning circles around him.   
"Paul? Paul, come on...let's get you to bed."  
There was more hammering on the bedroom door, and John swore under his breath.  
"Come on, love.." He tried to move Paul, but although the upper half of his body shifted, Paul's legs remained where they were. Paul suddenly met John's gaze with desperate dark eyes.  
"Christ, I feel..so..so.." the voice diminuendoed "...shit..."  
Next second, John saw Paul's eyes roll backwards in his head, and he slumped in John's arms. Taken off guard by the sudden weight, John had no choice but to let him slither to a heap on the bathroom floor.  
"Oh fuck!!! Fuck!!"  
"John! Paul! What's going on in there? Are you alright?" The voices were outside their bedroom door.  
John's head jerked up. Help. He needed help. That was Brian. John crossed the floor swiftly, flicked open the lock, and flung the door open. In front of him was Brian and a tousled Mal towering behind him. John stood there white-faced.   
"Paul..he's..he's just passed out."  
John saw panic flit across Brian's face. Of course, the two shows, the tour, the..the...  
Brian pushed past John, his paisley dressing gown flapping around his bare legs, his eyes darting around the room, looking for a body.  
"Where?" Brian was frantic "Where is he?"  
Then he saw him....Brian blushed red to the roots of his hair, and turned away quickly, then his eyes were tugged back again, and again he fought the urge to look. Then Mal was there. A naked McCartney held no moral dilemmas for him. Mal simply strode into the bathroom and swept Paul up into his arms as if he weighed no more than a child. He emerged with him into the bedroom to the stares of an embarrassed Brian and a worried John, both of whom seemed incapable of moving.  
"Which is his bed?" Mal enquired, gazing round. With a sudden shock John realised that, of course, only one bed was in use.Instantaneously he saw Brian reach the same conclusion , his gaze swinging questioningly to John. At the same time, John became aware of George materialising at his side.  
"What the fuck's going on? What the...Paul?"  
George started forward, alarmed. "Paul...Christ, is he okay? What's the matter?"  
Both Brian and John seemed frozen, unable to reply. Mal took an executive decision and headed towards the bed that had obviously been slept in. He lowered Paul onto it, and drew up the sheets to give him some privacy. George pushed past Brian and John and went swiftly to his childhood friend's side.  
"Paul?" He looked at John accusingly. "What the fuck's gone on, Lennon? What's wrong with him?"  
John was convinced his voice had ceased to be. Brian cleared his throat, aware of the fact he was still blushing furiously. He couldn't get the image of Paul out of his mind, and he felt that those around him must be aware of that. Stupid, he chided himself, stupid.   
"A..a doctor. Does he need a doctor? I'll...I'll get a doctor." He went to head off to the telephone, but John managed to access his voice. It came out sounding bland, unconcerned, though he hadn't meant it to.  
"No, Bri, no, he don't need no doctor..he's just..drunk too much, that's all."  
This time it was George's turn to glare at John. "Too much to drink? What the fuck, John...can't you take care of him."  
John bridled at the retort. "He's twenty four fucking years old..he doesn't need me to look after him."  
"But..you must have known he'd had too much..you could have slowed him down..."  
Brian butted in anxiously "Drink? Up here in the rooms? I didn't know there was..was drink..." He looked questioningly at John, who had the grace to look somewhat abashed.  
"I..er.." he cleared his throat " I brought a bottle up for me an' Paul."  
"So why aren't you pissed?" George enquired sarcastically. John shrugged.  
"Fuckin' hell" George leaned over to check Paul's breathing "He smells like a fuckin' distillery. How much did he have?"   
He looked at John for an answer. John shrugged again. "I dunno."  
"Better get him some water" Ringo's voice joined the conversation." If he's drunk that much an' been sick he could be dehydrated...s'not good."  
It was the first sensible and positive action anyone had mentioned. Brian disappeared into the bathroom and found a glass which he rinsed out...Christ, the bathroom floor, and Paul..lying there....stop it, he chided himself, don't go there, just...don't..  
He was convinced he must still be red when he emerged from the bathroom, and he willingly passed the glass into George's outstretched hand, then sought refuge behind Mal's bulk. George looked at John. "Help me, will y'? To lift him a bit, so I can get some water down him."  
Whoa..yup, John could certainly smell the whisky that seeped through the pores of Paul's body. He grit his teeth. Should have been more careful..should have..  
He lifted Paul under his arms, drawing him up to a sitting position. Paul slumped heavily against his shoulder, murmuring a complaint. It was a relief to John to hear his voice, even if he couldn't understand what he was saying. Concentrating like mad, George positioned the glass at Paul's lips.   
"Come on, Paul, open up...you've gotta have a drink." George tried tipping it, but it simply trickled down Paul's bare chest, causing him to shift a bit.  
"Hold his nose" Ringo suggested "so he's gotta open his mouth to breathe."  
"He's not a fucking dog" John snorted.  
George looked at John, concern written all over his face. "Can you wake him? Y'know...give him a bit of a shake? He could get alcohol poisoning...he'd have to go to hospital and.."  
John shook Paul. "Paulie...come on...wake up. You've got to drink..." Fuck. He was as floppy as a rag doll.  
Mal had watched these proceedings from a corner of the room, his face impassive. Finally he moved across to the bed. He shoved a startled John out the way.  
"Ringo's right...we've got to get some water into him. If I hold his nose and tip his head back, just try pouring some in." Brian blanched at the crude suggestion, but had no other advice to offer. His fingers still itched to phone for a doctor, but he was worried...the publicity...already so poor on this tour...this would make it worse.  
Mal slung his arm behind Paul, tipped his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. Automatically Paul opened his mouth to breathe, struggling faintly in his half conscious state. George quickly tipped water down Paul's throat, and Paul's eyes flew open as he choked on the liquid. George backed off quickly but Mal held on as Paul coughed and spluttered, finally managing to get his breath. He heaved great gulps of air into his lungs, and John observed cuttingly to Ringo "Well...what's your next trick then?"  
Ringo scowled back, tired and jaded and only trying to help. John's eyes swung back round to the bed when he heard a groan. If nothing else it had served to wake Paul from his stupor. Mal was talking softly to him, and George had moved back in. Paul tried to wave the water away, but George was insistent. Finally they managed to get Paul to finish a whole glass, by which time he was lucid, even if he looked and felt like crap. He appeared astonished, and somewhat embarrassed, to find their bedroom had been invaded by Mal and Brian as well as George and Ringo. He drew the sheets up around him with somewhat shaky fingers, his eyes seeking out John, who offered an apologetic smile, and perched on the bed near to him. Paul's eyes were dark and fathomless, giving nothing away.  
Brian's sigh seemed to come from all their combined hearts. He took in their worn aspect. "It's late...the flight is at ten tomorrow...you need to rest." He focused on Paul, connecting with him. "Are you okay? Are you going to be alright?" Paul simply nodded. George looked at him in concern.  
"Drink some more water, eh? Then try and get some sleep."  
The smile Paul gave George was genuine. "Okay Geo..." he replied softly.  
"And don't drink so much again. What were you thinking?"  
Paul's eyes skittered across to John, but he never uttered a word. Mal released him so he could lie down, which he did with a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed.  
"Goodnight, boys" Brian exited the room. Mal gave a nod at them and followed. Ringo yawned widely. "Fucking knackered. Gotta be up early for this flight an' all." He scratched himself absent-mindedly through his pyjamas. "Georgie, I'm heading back to bed. Just..make sure he drinks lots of water, yeah? G'night."  
Paul was breathing gently, well on his way to sleep again. George and John were perched side by side on the edge of the bed, John feeling rather uncomfortable. The look in George's eyes was far too knowing as he gazed slowly around the room, taking in the fact that the other bed hadn't been slept in. His gaze came to rest on John, who tried to meet it confidently but failed miserably. George shook his head as he looked at a discomfited Lennon. His words were quiet.  
"I'm not gonna ask what's gone on...'s'none of my business.."  
"Too right it's not" John cut in with a surge of bravado, but George calmly ignored him and carried on .."..but what is my business is Paul and his well being, and if I thought you'd deliberately set out to get him drunk...." John coloured. George noticed and sadly shook his head. He pushed himself off the bed, drawing his dressing gown closer around his gangly figure. "As you say, not my business...but don't you dare fucking hurt him, whatever you're up to. He's not your plaything."  
John was left open mouthed as George quietly exited the room. After the door closed behind George, John's vision fixed on Paul. He sat quietly for a moment watching the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, inwardly thanking God or whatever deity existed that Paul seemed to be okay. The feel of Paul collapsing in his arms wasn't an experience he wished to repeat. He leaned forward and pushed a sweaty lock of hair out of Paul's eyes, and Paul murmured and nestled further down into the bed. Christ, George was right. The lad did smell like a distillery. John castigated himself for his thoughtlessness....he'd been so intent on snaring Paul he'd not stopped for one moment to consider the risk he was putting the younger man under. He ran his hand up Paul's arm, feeling the nerves twitch at the contact. "I'm sorry, Paulie" John murmured quietly "I was being fucking selfish as usual. Hope you can forgive me." He lifted the sheets and slid in beside Paul's body, circling an arm around the sleeping figure. After all that drama tiredness swept over John like a tsunami, and he let his eyelids close.

"Any sound?" Ringo enquired. George put his ear to the door, and shook his head.  
"Nope. Not a dicky bird."  
Ringo shifted uncomfortably. "D'you think he's okay? I mean...."  
"I'm sure he's fine, Ritchie, don't worry."  
Neil's voice cut across their conversation. "Just need your suits for today...oh, yeah, Brian said take spare shirts, just in case."  
George raised his eyebrow. "Just in case what?"  
Neil shrugged. "Dunno...covering all eventualities, I expect. Erm...any movement yet?" He indicated the door of John and Paul's room.  
George shook his head. "Not a peep. If they aren't up soon someone'll need to wake them. D'you fancy the job?"  
Neil grinned, shaking his head. "No way. I'll get Mal to. Brian'll start getting edgy soon, though. What happened anyway?"  
"How'd you sleep through all that noise?" Ringo was gobsmacked.  
Neil just shrugged. "To be honest, I didn't...I just ignored it. I thought if I was needed someone'd come and get me. Nobody did so I went back to sleep."  
A shadow crossed George's face. "Paul had too much to drink...I think John plied him with it."  
Oh...this was a bit of gossip. Neil paused expectantly. "Oh yeah. Why's that?"  
Ringo's glance swung between George and Neil and he stepped in quickly .. mainly to protect Paul's privacy.  
"Think they were having their own bit of a party up there" George frowned at Ringo's blatant lie "..an' Paul, well, he's a lightweight, y'know....ended up puking everywhere an' passed out..."  
Neil nodded his head "Oh aye, so Mal said. Hope he's okay for today."  
Ringo met George's eyes.....he saw the worry...he saw something else too....suspicion?.... Ringo smiled at Neil. "I'm sure he'll be fine."  
"Ah....George, Ringo...all well?" Brian appeared, rubbing his hands together nervously. He always looked immaculate, whatever the time of day, but an aura of nervous strain shimmered around his figure.  
"Fine, ta, Brian."  
Brian glanced at the door to Paul and John's room, and chewed his lip worriedly. "Erm..are they up yet?" Oh shit..Paul..bathroom floor...Brian tried to push the image out of his mind. He could feel his face get warmer. Did they notice? Had they seen?  
George hummed. "Not seen 'em. Someone needs to wake 'em."  
Brian jiggled his feet, hesitant. "Yes, well, I'll, er...ask Mal."  
Ringo caught Neil's hidden smirk. Send in Mal. Big Mal. Where would we be without him.  
"Try rousing 'em with a cup of tea" George suggested. "It's Paul's preferred start to the day....assuming he's okay."  
Another layer of worry added itself to the stress Brian was already carrying. "Hmm...hmm... yes, of course. Of course."

John was already awake. He'd heard the voices outside their room, and knew that time was limited before someone knocked them up. His gaze shifted to Paul next to him, who was still fast asleep. After last night John had no idea what Paul would feel towards him....he had the feeling he'd really fucked up. He gazed upon the face next to him on the pillow, noting every well known feature. Paul was breathing deeply, lips slightly parted, a light film of sweat across his forehead. John eased himself carefully out of the bed, anxious not to disturb. He had to do something before Paul woke. Something to make amends. He drew his dressing gown round him and, after visiting the bathroom, exited their room. At the foot of the stairs he saw Brian with George and Ringo...ah, it must have been their voices he'd heard. All three looked up at him, relief palpable across their faces that at least one of the songwriting duo was awake.   
George started towards him, urgency in his voice "How's Paul?"  
John nodded. "Mornin' to you too, George. He's still asleep...just gonna make a cup of tea."  
"Does he look okay?" Ringo enquired. As the person who'd spent the longest time in hospital when a child he was always concerned about everyone's well being.  
John's smile softened. "I think he's fine, Ritch, don't worry your pretty little head."  
"John, we..er..." Brian didn't want to put pressure on, but his mind was a clock ticking away " we need to be leaving in just over an hour."  
"Doing me best 'ere, Eppy. Just let me in to the kitchen."

As John pottered about, getting mugs, reaching for the tea bags...tea bags..now who on earth has tea in bags? This was something to write home about.....he glanced out the kitchen window at the sprawling garden bathed in early morning dew. Below the window a yellow flowering rose bush caught his eye, big blooms that cascaded against the panes of glass. He watched as a tiny spider spun a gossamer thread across the leaf of one of the blooms, and behind him he heard the kettle boiling. It came to him suddenly, an impulsive idea, and he opened the window and broke off one of the roses...the biggest, the brightest, just in reach of his fingers. Even as he did so he chided himself..what was he doing? Picking a rose for his boyfriend? Yet at the same time it seemed the right thing to do. He just hoped he could get said rose upstairs without anyone else noticing. He made the tea, and tucked the rose inside his dressing gown carefully, where it nestled, cool and damp against his chest. Carefully carrying the two mugs, anxious not to squash the rose, he made his way slowly up the stairs into their room, and gently closed the door behind him. His heart gave a lurch at the sight of Paul who, in his absence and sensing more space, had rolled into the middle of the bed with his arms outflung. John put the tea down carefully and debated the best way of waking him. He was unsure of what his reception would be. He perched on the edge of the bed, picked up one of the mugs and, holding it in vision, gave the sleeping figure a gentle shake.  
"Paul? Paulie?" Paul stirred slightly, eyes flickering open, a furrow between his eyes as if it was all too much effort. Then he focused on the mug held in his line of vision, and became more alert.  
"Oh..tea..tha's nice..ta.." John's face swam into view behind the steaming mug, and Paul struggled to sit up. Suddenly a jolt pf pain shot through his backside and he winced visibly, swearing under his breath. John saw the realisation of why flood Paul's face, and accusing eyes were turned on him.  
"You..you..." Paul was not awake enough to gather his thoughts for a coherent sentence, for which John gave thanks. He swiftly extracted the rose from under his dressing gown and presented it to Paul. He held it in his fingers...it was like bringing a piece of heaven down to earth...the colour, the texture, the smell...the perfume brought back heady memories of English gardens and childhood. Their eyes met across it's beauty. John found apologies hard..in fact, he couldn't do it...could never admit he'd been wrong. This was the nearest he could get.  
John gave a shrug. "I couldn't help it. You're fuckin' irresistible, d'you know that?" Paul's mouth fell open in astonishment as John pressed the rose into his fingers. "I didn't mean to hurt you...I could never hurt you."  
Paul took the proferred rose and automatically held it up to his nose, breathing in the perfume. His heavy lidded eyes drooped a little.  
"It's...it's beautiful...thank you."  
John gave a broad grin. Phew. "Shame to wake you but we're on the road in less than an hour. Eppy's on the move. Shall I go through the bathroom first while you drink your tea?"  
Paul was still gazing bemusedly at John...he had the feeling a few things had happened but he couldn't remember what. Last night? Something? He chewed his lip distractedly.  
"Yeah..yeah..that's fine. Go ahead."  
When John disappeared into the bathroom, Paul sat up in the bed, alternatively sipping his tea and admiring the rose. His mind was a muddle of memories from the night before, not a single one of them lucent. He was bemused by John presenting him with a rose. He twirled it in his long fingers, absently regarding it's beauty. He gave a small sigh...it must have been pretty bad if John had gone to these lengths. He turned to place his mug on the bedside cabinet and winced as his head thumped. What the fuck had gone on last night?  
John emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry, and looked over at Paul.  
"Y'okay? D'you want a hand?"  
Paul frowned at him. "A hand?"  
"Yeah..y'know..to get ready."  
Paul shook his head...ow...shouldn't have done that. "No, 'm fine. I'll be fine." He winced visibly as he rose from the bed but didn't say anything. John watched him as he crossed to the bathroom, the yellow rose still clutched between his fingers. John gave an audible sigh as the bathroom door closed behind Paul.  
"Well...that could ha' gone a lot worse" he muttered to himself, and continued to get ready.

On the flight to Seattle John stayed close to Paul's side, attentive to his every need....so much so that George and Ringo began to find it amusing. Paul still only had a hazy memory of the night's events, and had a niggling feeling that those around him knew something he didn't...particularly when Ringo kept looking at him strangely and asking was he okay. Brian, too, seemed rather concerned and kept casting him odd glances when he thought Paul wasn't watching.   
"So you're going to be taken straight to the Edgewater Inn where there will be a short press conference" Brian instructed. There was a collective groan from all four Beatles.  
"Same stupid shitty questions" George muttered.   
Brian continued, unperturbed. "Then a three o' clock and an eight o' clock show..."  
"Have the tickets sold?" John butted in with his question.  
Brian covered quickly "Well...the evening one is a sell out, but not the afternoon one...but that's good, y'know, that the evening is. After all not everyone can get time off in the day. Then it's a late flight back and..well, the times your own again for a couple of days."  
"Whoopee!" said John, squeezing Paul's wrist. Startled, Paul jumped visibly.  
Brian frowned.  
"Er..can you be more circumspect please..we've dealt with enough controversy..we don't need anymore."  
John peered accusingly at Brian. "What you mean, Eppy. Spit it out."  
Brian shifted uncomfortably, and George and Ringo gave each other amused glances, settling down as if to watch a show in the making.  
"This is America, you know..such things are frowned upon..."  
"What things?..."  
"John, don't make me spell it out."  
"I don't know what you're talking about." John was belligerent.  
Brian muttered between clenched teeth"You and..and Paul.."  
Paul's head snapped up suddenly at the sound of his name, the colour draining from his face. He looked wildly at John. Anger rose in John, and a need to defend Paul.  
"What about me an' Paul, eh? What you sayin'? That we're queer or something? Is that it? 'Cos if you, or whoever, wants to try that on with me.."  
Attack. Best defence. Typical Lennon response. Brian tried to back down. "John..it's just..how you are together sometimes..people may misread your behaviour."  
"Well they can fucking misread to my fucking face then."  
"John..." Paul's voice, calming, although when he glanced at Paul John could tell he was mortified...he could read it in his eyes. "Just..let it go, yeah?"  
Paul turned to Brian. "S'okay, Bri...we understand. No horsing around, yeah?"  
Brian nodded thankfully, and George shot a knowing glance at Ringo as if to say "Told you so."  
Inside John was furious. He couldn't help but notice that Paul kept a safe distance for the rest of the day, even if John did race George into the seat next to Paul at the press conference. And then those stupid questions..again...except this time there was a new one. There seemed to be a rumour going round that Paul was to marry Jane that very night in Seattle after the evening concert. John glowered as Paul originally played along with it, treating it as a joke..."Yeah, tonight..." he'd laughed. Then he'd become more serious and said definitely only a rumour. But for John it brought only too clearly to mind the fact that soon he would be going home to his wife and Paul to his long-time girlfriend who he probably would marry. Paul had always said, ever since they were young, that he wanted to marry and have a big family. Watching him now through slitted eyes, as he chatted and charmed the reporters, John had to concede that such a scenario was doubtless inevitable. After all, what could he offer Paul? A dalliance on the side that was illegal? And one thing was certain, he wouldn't be able to provide Paul with a family, unless one of them got pregnant...he gave a snort of laughter at this ridiculous idea, and Paul cast a questioning glance at him. He went to lean over and squeeze Paul's hand in response, then realised he couldn't, and stopped part way, his eyes confused. Paul smiled warmly at him, as if reading his mind, and John beamed back. Thank God there were no hard feelings after last night. He had been a cad. He had to admit it.

The two concerts went without a hitch, even if the afternoon one was only half full. But the evening one made up for it, with an exuberant audience and an enthusiastic performance from the band. But they knew they were on borrowed time. This would be one of their last live performances. Paul had finally bowed to group pressure and conceded defeat. No more touring. George was ecstatic. To rapturous applause and screams they descended from the stage at the Centre Coliseum in Seattle, and were bussed to the airport for the flight back to L.A. Due to a fault on the plane with a worn tyre, the eleven o'clock flight did not leave until four in the morning. If anything hammered in the final nail on touring, that was it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 26th/ Day off in L.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya everyone who's followed this...I'm planning on tying it all up soon as I want to get on to other things...it will, however, be finished! I've found this story line quite hard going as I've limited it to an actual time line and occurrence and I'm feeling somewhat constrained...anyway...here goes...

26th August 1966

By the time they arrived back at the rented house the dawn had well and truly broken and the day was underway. They'd half dozed while waiting for the plane to be fixed, yet didn't feel refreshed. They mumbled between themselves whether it would be better to write that night off and just get their day started, or if they should go to bed and try and catch up on their missed sleep. The day ahead of them held absolutely no commitments...not even visitors, something they were all grateful for. George had a song buzzing in his head, and he was feeling particularly happy now that Paul had succumbed to peer pressure and agreed to stop touring. With this weight off his mind, George felt he could maybe concentrate on other things...like songwriting. Ringo, though he hadn't mentioned to anyone, was a little apprehensive. If they weren't going to tour anymore, would there still be a job for him in the group? He didn't feel he could voice his concerns to anyone, although...his eyes sought out Paul who was debating with John to sleep or not to sleep.....Ringo sighed. He could probably approach Paul...Paul would understand. If he could catch him on his own. John seemed awfully possessive of his person lately. Ringo lit yet another cigarette, pondering...hmm...Paul had said there were reports they could give you cancer...maybe he ought to try and cut down a bit. As if Paul sensed Ringo was thinking about him, Paul turned and flashed him a smile. There was a slight query in his eyes...not surprising, really. It wasn't that they could read one another's minds, it was just that they were so tuned to each other's thoughts and feelings after so many years of working together. Ringo beamed back at him. Now was not the time or place to start asking Paul where his place was in their future plans. He wasn't really worried anyway...after all, it would be nice to be able to spend sometime with his wife and two young boys. Before he knew where he was they'd be grown up. After all, look at John. Been on the road ever since the birth of Julian. Not that he seemed to mind. John always seemed his happiest when he was with Paul, even if the two of them bickered and occasionally fell out. Paul dropped contact with Ringo's eyes as John sought his company again, and then..there!..there it was!...Ringo couldn't help but notice. It had happened swiftly, but John had brushed his fingers over Paul's wrist...it hadn't been an accident, of that Ringo was sure...then he saw the smile Paul gave John....could it? What Brian said? Ringo did wonder. He didn't want to. He didn't really want to see things like that, but now he thought about it, so many other similar occasions crowded his mind.....he'd never made two and two four...well, y' didn't, did you? After all, they were both guys. Guys that had a lot of women. They'd never displayed any alternative behaviour...had they? Ringo choked as he realised he'd reached the end of his cigarette and had dragged on the filter. Paul glanced over at him, eyebrow raised.  
"Y'okay there, Ritch?"  
Ringo waved a hand dismissively. "M'okay, son. Just chokin' on me ciggie."  
Paul's smile was...well, Ringo looked at him through different eyes...it was gorgeous. He was gorgeous, and he guessed, if he did bat for the other team, that he would be attracted. Certainly Paul had faced a few propositions in his time from odd characters. He'd laughed about it later with them in a self deprecating way. But John? Would John?  
There... there it was again...a touch on Paul's wrist, and something...something animalistic in John's eyes...possessive...Ringo felt his cock twitch, and was surprised...he was affected by the magnetism flowing from one to the other across that room...how did anyone else not notice? How could Neil and Mal still be unloading..how could Brian still be talking...how could George still be...George?..George? Ringo looked around for the lead guitarist, and found he was the other side of the room, also watching John and Paul's interaction. Did he know? What did he think? What had he said to Ringo only the other day? "Spit it out, Ritch" as if he knew what Ringo was thinking. Ringo shifted awkwardly. He probably didn't want to know..not really. It could affect how he thought of them. Or would it? After all, he'd known them so long now, and, if he thought about it, there'd been rumours as far back as Hamburg. About the Beatles. About the pretty bass guitarist who'd swiftly learnt to fluently swear in German in order to defend his honour. But the rumours had gone further than that, bubbling under the surface. Ringo had heard them but not taken any notice, yet they'd lodged in his memory. Something about approaching Paul at your own peril....that he had a boyfriend within his own group...just chit chat...just banter...just joking....If you go near him you're likely to get flattened...did you hear? That guy..that German guy, blonde he was, took a fancy to Paul, waylaid him outside the Top Ten....found down one of the alleys the next morning with a black eye and a broken rib...just sayin', like...at your own peril.  
"We're goin' up to bed" John's decisive nasal voice cut through Ringo's rambling memories. Paul gave a nod and a smile, and followed John up the stairs. Ringo was still standing there, watching them.  
"What you doin' then, Ritch? D'you wanna kip too?"  
George was at his elbow. Ringo considered. All that thinking had him quite worn out. "Yup...think I'll do a bit of catching up on me kip too."

As John closed the bedroom door behind him, Paul moved over to the window and put the blinds down, plunging the room into a dim glow.  
"Shame to block out the sun" he apologised "But there's no way I'll sleep with the sun pouring in."  
John moved swiftly behind him, circling his arms around the upright figure. "Who said anything about sleeping?" he queried with a devilish grin.  
Paul turned in his arms, and surveyed him, pulling back slightly so he could get all of John's face in focus.  
"Really, Johnny, what d'you have in mind.?"  
Johnny. No one called him that quite like Paul. With all his weight he propelled Paul backwards across the room until they both fell down on the bed. All the air was knocked out of Paul as John landed on top of him. John raised himself on his elbows and surveyed the slightly ruffled bassist underneath him.  
"Well, I thought we could improve on last night's performance."  
"What..me being sick or your blow job?" Paul responded quickly, eyebrows raised. John looked at him affectionately, then leaned down and attacked him with a passionate kiss that left them both gasping for air when he pulled away.  
"You're not gonna be sick tonight, Paulie. I want you awake, and able to enjoy."  
"I was awake last night..well, for some of it" Paul conceded.  
John winced. "Yeah...I shouldn't have done that...it was just..I thought you might not, and..well, if we're not gonna tour anymore, then...occasions like this might not often come our way." John gave a wry smile. "I couldn't resist you. You have to know that. You're very irresistible, y'know. In fact, if you were a bird I'd marry you."  
Paul burst out laughing. John leaned up, looking at him. "What?"  
"Why should I be the bird? We'd both have to be husbands...and that'd be daft. Anyway, you're already married."  
It was like Paul stuck a knife into his heart. John pulled back a little more.  
"Yeah, I know. Thanks for the reminder." John sounded bitter.  
Paul frowned. "You've got a lovely wife and a gorgeous little boy...you should be very happy."  
John sat back on his heels, and surveyed the man splayed out on the bed. He ran his fingers up Paul's chest, toying with the buttons. He felt Paul shiver. He leaned down and gently kissed Paul's lips, which remained parted, expectant.  
John sighed. "S'no good, son, I can't replace you. This..." he danced his fingers up Paul's chest "..this is what makes me happy. If I could wave a wand and make the rest of the world go away and only ever have or know one person for the rest of my life, it would have to be you."  
John saw Paul blink slowly, not knowing how to respond. John began unbuttoning Paul's shirt, one button at a time, stopping to press butterfly kisses as the smooth chest was exposed. He reached Paul's neck, his ears, and he gently tugged with his lips on the earlobes. Beneath him he felt Paul moan. John realised, with a lurch, that he knew every inch of this body, every trigger point, everything that turned Paul on, better than he knew his own or...with a gulp...his wife's. John eased the shirt off Paul's shoulders, peeling it down his arms. He stopped to admire Paul's body, giving one of his nipples a playful tweak, and Paul squirmed under the scrutiny.  
"John..come on, don't arse around."  
Ooh, impatient. That's what John had been hoping for. In one swift move he divested Paul of his trousers and underpants, barely stopping to note the fact that Paul was almost fully aroused, and standing up quickly shed his own clothing. He leaned back on top of Paul, and their two cocks rubbing together set up a delightful friction. Paul's hand snaked down to offer himself or John some relief, but John batted him off.  
"Oy...no cheating. Leave it to me."  
"Oh for chrissake, John...don't take ages."  
John stopped what he was doing and leaned up, surveying Paul from amused eyes.  
"Bit anxious aren't we, Macca?"  
Paul wriggled, his cock needing relief, seeking some kind of pressure. "John" he whined. John reached down and swiped the tip with his thumb and Paul's hips involuntarily bucked upwards after more. John carefully lay on top of him, creating contact with his own body, and he heard Paul moan.  
"Oh fuck" Paul whispered, his eyes seeking John's "We shouldn't be doing this."  
John began moving up and down, creating a sliding rhythm so they kept rubbing together.  
"Why not?" he enquired serenely, as if asking about the weather. Paul's only reply was a whimper. John smiled to himself. Getting Paul to come apart really was his favourite pastime. He figured he could spend his life doing this. Every now and then Paul's shaft slid along next to John's, and Paul would try to seek the contact again. John gripped him round the wrists, forcing him to stay still. Paul's hair was gathering in small sweaty clumps and his eyes were getting darker as the pupils dilated. He stared hopefully at John.  
"Please" he whispered.  
John's smile widened. "Please what?"  
Fuck, thought Paul, how does he have this much control. Do I really have to spell it out?  
"Just..please" he panted, trying to buck his hips. John lay down more heavily on top of him, preventing him from moving at all. Paul let out a frustrated growl, and it took all John's willpower not to chuckle.  
"I fucking hate you" Paul said between clenched teeth.  
John's smile never wavered. "I know." He kept up the same rhythm, up and down Paul's body, the sweat that was forming making it even easier to slide.  
Paul waited. He was not going to ask again. He shut his eyes so he couldn't see John's smile. He knew very well what John was trying to do. This was becoming a battle of wills.  
Paul gritted his teeth and preferred to wait out the inevitable. After all, he figured, John couldn't hold out for ever. John felt Paul's withdrawal, and hid his smile. So..he wanted to play games. John became slower, and he could sense Paul's frustration even if he didn't respond. Slower...and slower...and....stop.  
Paul's eyes flew open, anxiety clouding them.  
John gave a Cheshire cat smile before suddenly taking all of Paul in in one go. He felt Paul's body jerk, and his fingers fastened in John's hair, forcing the hold he had on Paul's wrists off him. Now Paul was moving, and nothing John could do would hold him still. It was like being on a storm tossed life raft. He felt Paul tense under him, and he quickly moved his head away before Paul came, riding wave after wave of ecstasy, his fingers still gripping John's hair. Slowly he loosened his hold, his lips curling in a smile.  
"Fucking lightweight you are, son" said John, indicating his own still aroused state. With one swift fluid movement, Paul flipped them over, and fastened his lips around John's shaft. This time it was John's turn to groan. Paul took him all in, his head bobbing up and down between John's legs. John felt the orgasm begin in his toes and riding all up his body, exploding in Paul's mouth. The lad never flinched, just kept going. John just wanted more, and more...he kept driving into the back of Paul's throat until every inch of him was spent, then collapsed with a sigh. Paul let the soft member slip out of his mouth with an obscene plop, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said "So..who's the lightweight now, then, eh?"  
John slipped his arms around Paul and pulled him down to lie alongside him. They breathed in one another's scent, relishing the familiarity of it all. Paul was humming gently underneath his breath. John chuckled, and ruffled his hair.  
"Dreaming up another number one hit are we son?" he enquired.  
Paul was too relaxed and lazy to reply. He shifted nearer to John, as if he could crawl under his skin and be one with him, closed his eyes and let sleep claim him. For a few moments John watched him as he drifted off, trying to hang on to every memory, every snapshot, for the times when there might be no more of this. He ran his fingers lightly up and down Paul's arm, counting the breaths. If John could have had a wish, it would have been to bottle up that moment and preserve it for ever. 

"John!!!" Paul's voice from the bathroom.  
John rolled over groggily. God, what time was it? Something stupid, like...like...He couldn't see a clock.  
Paul came marching...yes, John decided, there was no better word, marching out of the bathroom, a towel around his wet hair but, to John's satisfaction, not another stitch on. He lay back and admired the long legs. He'd always loved Paul's legs. They seemed to go on forever and ever, and...  
"....will notice. What were you thinking?"  
Paul perched by John on the edge of the bed, his face flushed. John blinked owlishly. What had Paul been saying? Had he been talking to him?  
Paul shook his head. "You weren't listening to me, were you" he admonished.  
John ran a hand up the long white thigh appreciatively, almost licking his lips. "Got a bit distracted there, son." he admitted. "Something wrong?" His eyes were still travelling up and down Paul's thighs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Paul gesticulate.  
"This, John...this"  
"Hmm?" John's eyes swung to where Paul was pointing. Oh! Whoops. A fantastic love bite was nestling on the side of Paul's neck. John grinned.  
"Oh...right. Well, er.."  
Paul looked at him for a solution. "What do I do?"  
"Not much you can do, is there." John pulled back a bit and admired his handiwork. It was pretty impressive, he thought.  
"John!"  
John looped his hand round the back of Paul's head and yanked him down, planting a big squelchy kiss on his lips.  
Paul tugged his way back up again. "That doesn't solve it."  
"Well, nothing will, really." John said pragmatically. "Just time."  
"We were going swimming."  
"So?"  
"So...everyone will see."  
"Swim with a t-shirt on. Say you're worried about getting burnt. With your colour skin no one will question it."  
"But..but it shows, John. It'll show above the top of a t-shirt. I'd have to wear a fucking polo neck."  
John backed off to look a bit closer. Hmm. It was quite high up on Paul's neck. And pretty obvious. Whoops!  
John looked closely at Paul. To be fair, the lad did look a bit distressed.  
"I..I wanted to have a swim. Everyone'll see. Even with a t-shirt. An' what'll George and Ringo say? And..and Brian..." Paul's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "He..he said.."  
John's hand covered Paul's comfortingly.  
"Fuck 'em, Paul. It doesn't matter. They'll just think it's a girl you've had that got a bit amorous."  
"Amorous? A girl? Fuck, John, they know it's only been you and me here all night. I've not had a girl since..since.." Paul was casting his mind back, thinking. The last couple of days all his sexual exploits had been with John. He bit his lip nervously.  
Sensing his discomfiture, John sat up,  
"Paul, look, I have an idea."  
Paul looked at him hopefully. Shit, John thought, I love his eyes..could get lost in them..."....we'll put a plaster over it and say you cut yourself shaving."  
"It'd be a pretty big cut."  
John shrugged. "So? It's a pretty big cut. And if you trim the plaster roll yourself no one'll query it 'cos as a leftie you can't handle scissors properly."  
Paul sighed. He couldn't see any other way out of it.  
"Have we got any plasters?" he muttered.  
John swung his legs out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. "I'll pop downstairs and see. You stay here. What time is it, by the way"  
Paul glanced at his watch on the bedside table. "Just turned three."  
"Ah..nearly tea time. I'll make us a cuppa and come back with tea and plasters. Okay?"  
Paul nodded resignedly. John chucked him under the chin and gave him a quick peck on the lips when he looked up.  
"Stop worrying."  
Okay for him to say, Paul thought as John exited the room. He wasn't the one walking round with a bloody lovebite on his neck. He went back into the bathroom and examined it in the mirror. He was sure it was getting bigger and redder. Muttering to himself, he dragged on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He'd really looked forward to having a swim. It'd been ages since he'd been able to do anything like that. And maybe work up a bit of a tan to impress the relatives back home...not that his white Irish skin would tan very much, but he might get a bit of a glow. He heard the door open as John re-entered.  
"Come on Macca, stop preening in that mirror an' get your arse out here. Tea and plasters at the ready. George and Rings are already outside in the pool."  
John covered the offending mark with a badly cut off piece of fabric strip.  
"You could have cut it more evenly" Paul objected.  
John just tutted. "Looks more like you've done it if it's a bit messy...cag handers can't manage scissors, everyone knows."  
Paul surveyed himself in the mirror. "Does it look okay?" He asked anxiously.  
John winced a bit at his blatant lie."Looks fine, son, no one will ever know."

Outside in the sunshine George and Mal were cavorting around in the pool, the light glinting invitingly off the water. George, Brian and Neil were lounging on sunchairs reading magazines. George squinted up at John and Paul as they emerged.  
"Thought you two were gonna stay in bed all day."  
"Morning to you too Georgie pie" John commented acidicly. George simply shrugged and returned to his magazine. Brian glanced up at them with a smile.  
"Have a good rest?" He felt quite benevolent, having built yet another two rest days into their hectic schedule.  
"Fine, thanks, really good" Paul smiled back.  
Brian's gaze narrowed. "What have you done to your neck?"  
Paul slapped his hand on the plaster and couldn't prevent the blush that crept up his face.  
John stepped in swiftly. "Silly sod cut himself shaving. Looks a mess, dunnit? Good job we're not performing today."  
Paul glared at John, then was distracted by a call from Ringo.  
"Come on, Paul. Been waiting for you to arrive."  
Paul slung his top off and barrelled into the water, drowning everyone with the splash he made. He struck out in a crawl, although as the pool was only small he couldn't get very far, so he busied himself by pulling Ringo under, then was tugged underneath himself by Mal. The three men fooled around for a while, their laughter and splashing filling the air. John settled himself on a sunchair. He leaned back, listening to the boyish enthusiasm of those in the pool, and the sun made swirly red and yellow colours behind his eyelids. This was the life. He felt he could probably doze off again. At the moment he was very content, and, what was more, he'd had Paul next to him all night. He didn't need to try very hard to recall what it felt like to hold Paul in his arms. A satisfied smile spread over his face.  
"What the fuck is that???"  
George's exclamation caused John's eyes to snap open. Paul had come out of the pool and was standing there, embarrassed, his hand covering his neck, looking absolutely mortified. John glanced swiftly at the pool and could see the waterlogged plaster happily floating about on the surface. Ringo was just coming up the pool steps, his hair dripping, his face one beaming smile.  
"Cor, that's a fucker you've got there, mate. Must ha' been one helluva girl."  
Ringo's words dropped into a stunned silence as everyone registered the fact that Paul had not been with a girl. A slow blush began to spread up Paul's neck and he squirmed visibly under the scrutiny of many pairs of eyes. Brian stood up, his glance taking in Paul and swivelling to John accusingly. Ringo stopped where he was, halfway out of the pool, the smile dropping off his face as quickly as it had arrived .The only thing that registered with Ringo in the pregnant pause was George's smirk. The next moment, Paul had fled. The only sign that he'd been there was a trail of wet footprints leading in through the french doors.  
"John?"  
John looked up innocently. "Yes Bri?"  
Brian sighed. Was it worth it? He had to consider that. The rumblings over touring had been going on for a while and now the very last Beatle had succumbed, was it worth it? He'd always known there was something going on between Paul and John. To anyone who had even the slightest inkling it had, surely, been obvious. They'd tried. Oh yes, he knew they'd tried. And inwardly, he'd felt sorry for them. Denied what was so rightfully theirs. He understood that. But his job had been to guide them through what a misunderstanding world expected. Clean boys. Wholesome boys. No sex. No scandals. God forbid there should be any of 'that' involved. Britain in the sixties didn't allow 'that'. America even less. He knew that well, for he'd been part of that world. And if he'd had the nerve to raise the subject with them, he would have warned them off any attraction to each other. Yet he knew that they wouldn't have listened. How could they? That magnetism was there. It was what made them...them.  
Brian looked at John, and sighed. "It doesn't matter, John. It doesn't matter."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 27th August Day off in L.A.

A second rest day was luxury to the four young men. They were now, along with their entourage, starting to feel really relaxed. The previous night they'd enjoyed a wonderful   
meal together along with quality vintage wines, and had dropped into bed at a reasonable time...no suffering from jet lag. They knew visitors had been scheduled for this day, 27th, but these were people they looked forward to seeing, not least of all Brian Wilson, who Paul admired very much. 

George was first up, sitting outside in the shade with his acoustic guitar, still messing around with the chords that would one day become a song. He'd breakfasted already, enjoying the abundance of fresh fruit that was available, and was considering going for a second helping when Paul slipped out of the french windows, noiseless with bare feet, dressed in short sleeved shirt and shorts. He gave a disarming grin at George and perched cross-legged by him, selecting a cigarette from the pocket of his shirt, and held out the packet to George.  
"D'you want one?"  
George extracted one from the packet and looked closely at Paul. "Ringo said you told him they cause cancer and he ought not to smoke so much."  
Paul shrugged "Yeah, well...it was something I read. I dunno...I guess most things we like doing aren't good for us." He squinted across the sun reflecting off the small pool.  
"It's relaxing here, innit."  
"Fancy buying a villa in L.A. then?"  
"Nah..not really. Prefer England. Feel safer there."  
"Been a crap tour, hasn't it."  
Paul's natural optimism sprang into action. "Oh..could ha' been worse. I mean.." he attempted a joke " we're still alive."  
George looked at him fondly. "D'you know, we should cut you up into little pieces and offer you as a happiness pill to people in need."  
Paul grimaced. "Oh, I'm not always that happy, y'know. It's just a cover."  
George didn't reply. He'd known Paul long enough to be aware of the fact that he kept a lot of his emotions hidden. A cover indeed. How much did Paul cover up? George observed him from beneath furrowed brow as he smoked, enjoying the company without any pressure. As Paul shifted, the upturned collar of his shirt moved enough to reveal the brilliant red love bite on his neck. It made George feel uncomfortable, but deep down inside himself he was not surprised to discover that it hadn't come as a revelation. In fact, it had obviously not come as a revelation to Brian either. But maybe, as Brian was that way inclined, he read the signs more easily. George debated within himself...should he mention it? Would Paul want to talk about it? About what was going on? God..it would make George feel like some psychologist on a daytime American T.V. programme..."...so, Mr. McCartney, would you like to discuss the relationship between you and Mr. Lennon?" George snorted in amusement, and Paul turned to him in surprise, one finely arched eyebrow raised.  
"Y'okay?"  
George waved a hand in front of his face. "Yeah, yeah..just had a funny thought."  
Paul's face brightened. "Oh, care to share?"  
"Not bloody likely." George shook his head. "Sorry, Paul, it was just something personal...it wouldn't mean anything to you..honest." George realised he was gabbling and Paul looked rather puzzled. He changed the subject quickly. "Have you had breakfast yet?"  
Paul stubbed out the end of his cigarette on the patio. "No, not yet. John came down to get us a cup of tea but he sort of disappeared " Paul glanced vaguely around as if John might suddenly materialise." I came down to look for him, but then I saw you, so..." He gave a little shrug.  
"Is John looking forward to going home?" George almost blurted the sentence out, surprised at himself, and looked at Paul with astonished eyes.  
Startled, Paul gave another shrug. "I..I dunno..I guess so. It's not been easy, has it...I mean, for him, like...all those fuckin' apologies, an' still people are asking..." he trailed off, his eyes darting around, uncomfortable.  
"Thought he might be missin' Cynthia an' Julian, like."  
Paul turned to look at George, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decipher where George was going with all this. "Yeah, I'm sure he's dyin' t' see 'em. Julian's growin' at such a rate. He's such a lovely little kid." There was a touch of longing in Paul's voice. It didn't escape George's notice. He felt a flood of warmth for his old friend.  
"You'll have tons of kids of your own one day, I'm sure."  
Paul gave a twisted smile, then glanced up, his face brightening, as John emerged through the french windows with two cups of tea.   
"Just been all the way back upstairs with these...wondered where you'd bleedin' got to. Don't blame me if it's cold." With a smile that belied the words, John thrust a cup of tea at Paul. His gaze then swung to George. Although John didn't say anything, or his actions imply anything, George suddenly felt excluded. There wasn't room for both him and John at Paul's side. He stood up, placing his guitar to one side.  
"Tea sounds nice " he excused himself. "Think I'll go make meself one too."  
"I'd ha' done one for y' if I'd known y' were here." John called after him as he disappeared through the french doors.  
There was a moment's silence after George's departure, then John settled on the step at Paul's side, nudging him with his elbow.  
"Drink up, Macca...it might not be that warm. I made it a bit ago."  
Paul sipped tentatively, then took a bigger swig. "S'fine. Where'd you get too? I came down to look for you."  
"Got chatting to Brian."  
Paul's stomach clenched. All kinds of panicked thoughts turned cartwheels in his head, but he schooled his face to look calm as he asked "Oh, yeah? What about?"  
"You and me."  
Paul almost sprayed the mouthful of tea he was drinking over John and himself. Choking slightly, he put the cup down while John, an amused smile on his face, patted his back.  
"Steady on...I wasn't divulging our sex secrets if that's what you're thinking."  
Paul's face went red with a mixture of lack of air and shock.  
"No, I didn't...I wasn't..I mean...fuck, what about? What about us?"  
"He asked me what were we going to do when we got back to England."  
Paul's eyes were rapidly searching John's face, desperately trying to read it.  
"Do?" Shit..his voice had shot up an octave. He cleared his throat, trying to calm down.  
"Yes..do..as in..activities." The smile, slightly sardonic in a typical John way, had not left his face. John calmly sipped his tea, enjoying the flavour, musing, his eyes relaxed and thoughtful. "I told him about the film I was goin' to be takin' part in an' he asked me if I thought I might do a bit more of that kind of thing...actin', that is" he clarified. Paul's eyes never left John's face, a slightly anxious frown on his forehead. "Said no..don't think so. Reckon you an' me'll probably spend time writin' more. " John's glance swung to Paul, startling him with it's proximity. "Don't you think?"  
The nearness of John was distracting, and Paul's insides felt in turmoil. This was another reason for staying away from Lennon....he absorbed all of Paul. His thoughts, his feelings, there was no room left for anyone or anything else. "I..I guess so, yeah."  
John raised his eyebrows. "Think so? Only think so, Macca? Thought we were gonna become the next Rogers and Hammerstein, writin' for everybody. S'what you want to do, isn't it?" A slight frown creased John's face.  
Paul couldn't take his eyes off John. It was if his vision had been fixed, unable to look away. He licked his suddenly dry lips. "Yeah, yeah, write, yeah."   
John smirked at Paul's incomplete sentence. "Y'okay there, honey bunch?"  
Paul coloured at John's words. Shit..was his infatuation so obvious. He managed to tear his glance away, and busied himself twirling the tea cup round and round in his fingers. He felt his face grow warm, and knew John's glance was still upon him. Inside, he was worried. What did the end of touring mean for them? For all of them? He'd been a Beatle for so long he couldn't imagine another life, and though it had had it's downsides, for Paul it had all been outweighed by the positives. A silence fell between them, and it grew, and grew. Paul knew John was waiting for him to say something, but he didn't know what to say. He wished he could wave a magic wand and start all over again...be once more that chubby young schoolboy meeting John at Woolton fete..if only he knew then what he knew now. Would he change things? Paul looked up to find John observing him closely. Surprised, and embarrassed, Paul felt tears start to his eyes. He had no idea why. He stifled a sob, and covered his face with his one free hand. He felt John's arm slip round his shoulders. The voice was close, soft in his ear.  
"Wanna talk about it?"  
Paul shook his head, and gave an audible sniff, trying to pull himself together. Where the fuck had this well of emotions suddenly erupted from? He felt the warmth of a tear slip between his fingers, then another. Oh shit, he wasn't going to start crying, was he? John would think he was a proper bird. He sniffed again, hiding behind his hand, then a hanky was thrust into his fingers, and he took it gratefully, scrubbing at his eyes, his nose, refusing to look at John. The arm around him gave a squeeze.  
"It's okay to cry sometimes, y'know" the voice continued gently in his ear. Paul shook his head. He felt so fucking stupid. He didn't even know what he was crying about. A finger touched his face, swiping a tear away, then next moment John's hand was cupping his cheek, warm lips were on his, and in their kiss he could taste the salt from his tears. He sniffled into the kiss, feeling like a young child, and leaned into the warmth of John's body. The arm encircling him tightened, and he shut his eyes. Sometimes he didn't want to face reality.  
"...got this really good pot, it grows brilliantly over here..." Ringo's voice, travelling in their direction. Paul pulled away sharply from John, and swiftly rose to his feet. He almost collided with Ringo as they passed each other through the french doors. Paul sensed Ringo's look of surprise, and he cast a murmured apology as he fled through the lounge. Ringo halted, unsure, his eyes fixed on Paul's retreating figure, then looked down at John, who was still sitting, thoughtful, on the steps. Ringo's smile dropped, his antennae waving anxiously.  
"Y'okay there, John? Didn't disturb anything, did I?"  
John fixed a reassuring smile on his face. "No, son, don't worry. Y' didn't disturb anything. "  
Ringo's glance swung back into the house, then back to John. "Paul okay?"  
Ringo hadn't really expected a reply, but to his surprise John emitted a sigh, and a slight head shake. "No, not really, but he will be. I think his emotions are runnin' a bit high. The end of touring, an' all that." His smile broadened. "Anyway, how are you?"  
Ringo sat down by John in the place Paul had just vacated. He could still feel the warmth of the other's body on the step. John was still sipping the now cool tea. He seemed wrapped in his own thoughts. Ringo extracted a cigarette, looked at it, thought about what Paul had said, and put it back again. He noticed John give a little smile.  
"Paul been on at you about cutting down on smokin' too?"  
Ringo gave a sheepish smile "Yeah, just a bit. Has he whinged at you too?"  
John returned the grin. "Oh, yeah, not half." He raised his voice to Paul's pitch, making it sound more girly ' "Those things might give you cancer, you know." '  
"Well, at least he has our welfare at heart."   
The smile slipped slowly from John's face, and a distant look replaced it. He gazed across the pool to the boundary wall.  
"Yeah, he has that. He's a softy, no doubt about it."  
Ringo relaxed at the gentle tone and have the bravery to ask "Is he okay? He looked a bit..upset."  
"Big decision, innit? Not touring. S'always been Paul's life...I reckon if the Beatles had never happened he'd a still done summat." John gave a cross between a laugh and a snort "..probably been an English teacher by day and a busker by night. Music would have to be in there somewhere."  
"An' what about you?" Ringo's wide blue eyes asked the question guilelessly. John always seemed so definite about what he was doing. Bulldozing his way through life.  
"Me son? Oh I'll get by. I'm off to Spain to act in this film."  
Ringo extracted a cigarette after all and lit it. "Don't fancy catching up with wife and son for a bit then?" He allowed himself a moment to consider where the temerity to ask this question had come from. It seemed to surprise John too, as his glance flickered over to Ringo, but he didn't jump down his throat like Ringo thought he might.   
"No.." the reply was soft. John heaved a sigh. "M'not the settling down type, Ringo. That's more the Paul thing. Can't think for a minute how mixed up we often get. Paul'd be happy to go home to a wife and kid, but Jane doesn't want to give up her career...fair enough, her choice...an' there's me with both an' I'd rather be fancy free. Off on the lash with me mates. I expect " John gave a twisted smile " Paul'll probably keep an eye on Cyn and Jules while I'm away." Out of the corner of his vision, John saw Ringo's eyes widen.  
"Oh, I don't mean like that. Paul'd never do that. I mean...literally, visit 'em, make sure they're okay. He's good with kids. Dunno how he does it." John shifted his legs, which were starting to cramp. "Maybe I'll be better once Julian's older and I can do different things with him."  
"I can't wait to get back to Mo and the boys. It's been a real shitty tour."  
John visibly winced. "Yeah, sorry about that."  
"No...didn't mean it like that. I meant..well, just everything. Numbers down, plane delays, rubbish transport, stupid reporters..oh, and American food."  
"I agree there. If Paul whinges once more about the tea over here.."  
They smiled at each other.  
"So.." Ringo returned to his line of questioning. "Is Paul gonna be okay?"  
John turned to survey Ringo thoughtfully. "You really care, don't you?"  
Ringo gave a slight shrug, and studied the cigarette smouldering between his fingers. "It's just that..well, when I first joined the band, he was always lookin' out for me, checkin' I was alright." He raised his eyes and looked directly at John. "I've never forgot that."  
There was a softness in John's face that Ringo rarely saw. A tenderness. It made Ringo swallow a lump that seemed to have appeared in his throat.  
"Don't you worry your pretty little head about him, Ritchie. He'll be okay. I'll make sure of it."

John opened the door to their bedroom. Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed nearest to the windows, which were flung open to let in the fresh air. He had one leg crossed over the other, and was smoking, a smouldering cigarette between his left hand fingers. He turned his head at the sound of the door opening. John couldn't help but notice that Paul's face was schooled into a blank canvas, hiding all emotions. John hid the smile that tugged at his heart strings. He crossed the room swiftly and sat next to Paul, who didn't blink. John took a cautious deep breath, checking that it was a normal cigarette and not weed.  
John indicated the cigarette with a nod. "Thought you were giving up?"  
"Cutting down."  
"Cutting down, then." John glanced at the stuffed ashtray. How long had Paul been up here on his own?  
"I will...tomorrow."  
"You know what they say about tomorrow..it never comes."  
John saw a nervous tic twitch near to Paul's eye. He leaned over and removed the cigarette from Paul's lax fingers, stubbing it out. Paul looked questioningly at him.  
"Just making sure, son."  
Paul was puzzled. "Sure? What of? Of what?" he corrected himself. John indicated the full ashtray.  
"If they do cause cancer, then you need to quit."  
"Why?" Paul's eyes were huge, swallowing John in their depths. John felt himself drowning in them. His glance fell to Paul's lips, and he felt Paul do the same. He leaned forward. Paul leaned the same amount. Then like a slow motion film they finally met somewhere in the middle. The kiss was chaste. John's mouth tasted of tea, Paul's of cigarettes. John felt Paul tremble, and he slipped a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him closer, and deepened the kiss until they couldn't tell who was tea and who was cigarette.  
Finally, John drew back a little and looked closely at Paul. "Cos I don't wanna lose you."  
"Lose me?" Paul's voice was a whisper. His eyes never left John's face.  
"Lose you..to cancer. Or anything else. Anything, Paul. Ever. Not ever."  
Paul's mouth twitched in a half smile. "I'm gonna die someday, John.."  
John shook his head. "Not before me. S'not allowed."  
They were lost in each other's eyes.  
"Not allowed" Paul echoed softly. John shook his head, smiling, and traced his thumb down Paul's cheek, pausing on his lips. He studied him appreciatively.  
"You are fucking gorgeous, d'you know that?"   
Paul shifted, embarrassed. "Pretty good y'self."  
"Am I?" There was a teasing tone to John's voice.   
"Yeah" quietly.   
John moved his thumb away from Paul's face, trailing it down the bare arms, and resting somewhere at the top of his legs. Under the brief shorts it wasn't difficult to spot Paul's arousal. John's smile grew bigger, and he ran a thumb over the protusion. Paul started, his eyes suddenly dilating.   
"And you" he leaned forward to whisper in Paul's ear " are a randy little bastard."  
He pushed a suddenly compliant Paul down onto the tidy bed.  
"Come on. We've only messed one bed up yet. Let's start on this one, then there's the floor.."  
"..the bath tub.."  
"..the shower.."  
"..the wardrobe.."  
John pulled back in amusement and looked at Paul. " The wardrobe? How little d'you think you are?"  
Paul's smile was radiant, and John sank back down on top of him. "We could try the balcony" he nuzzled into Paul's ear.  
"We don't have a balcony..Ringo and George have that room..remember?"  
"Oh yes, and who fuckin' gave it away to them eh?" John nibbled Paul's earlobe, and the bassist squirmed. " ' Oh John I don't care where I sleep' "  
Paul chewed his lip, unsure. John swept his arms around him and pulled him close, as if he could meld the two of them together.   
"I'd sleep on a cliff top if I could be with you" John whispered into his ear.

Paul was ecstatic at meeting Brian Wilson. Over tea, then wine, then weed, they talked endlessly about music. John remained at Paul's side for as long as he could then drifted away to join George, who looked at him with amusement.  
"Not quite got Paul's staying power, eh?"  
John dragged deeply on his spliff. "How can you talk about music...then music...then more music..then.." he waved his arm in the air.  
George grinned. "This is Paul y' talking about. He's never been any different."  
John shrugged. "Yeah I know."  
George turned to glance at someone, and John followed his line of vision. There were a few pretty girls scattered around the room amongst their guests. Local beauties brought in to keep the boys occupied. He ran an appreciative eye over them.   
"So, see anything you fancy?" George's voice.  
"Hmm. Might do. But..." John shifted where he sat, feeling lazy and satiated. He'd had Paul to himself for quite a few hours now, and they'd both made the best of that time. Paul seemed to have thrown caution to the winds, compared to his response at the beginning of the tour. And Christ, it wasn't going to make the future any easier, John knew that. That was why originally, apart from the risk of getting caught, they'd made the decision not to go there. It was too difficult. Too difficult to say no. Mimi always used to preach at him 'What you've never had you'll never miss'. She was right. The old bugger was right. If he'd never had Paul in his arms....  
"Which one?"  
John came to with a start. Truth be told, he didn't want sex at the moment. He'd had his fill....not that he could tell George that. He'd rather wait until later. Until he had Paul to himself again. Compared with his dark-haired fella the girls just looked insipid, watered down versions.  
"I, er...dunno. You choose."  
A frown creased George's brow. "What? Me choose? For you? For YOU??"  
"No, I didn't mean that..I meant..." oh this was an effort. John heaved a sigh. "..I'm not bothered, Geo, to be honest. You go ahead."  
There was a gleam of suspicion in George's eye. John didn't notice it at first.  
"You don't fancy sex?" he asked quietly.  
John shrugged.   
"Is there a reason for that?" George's voice was very quiet.  
John locked eyes with him, the spliff smouldering between his fingers.   
"There might be."  
"And would she have a name?"  
John's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Maybe."  
"Would her name happen to be Paul?"  
John sat up so quickly he banged his shin on the coffee table. "What the fuck??"  
George just shook his head, a sad smile on his face. "I'm not stupid, John. None of us are. And no..before you ask...nobody has said anything."  
John sank back, speechless. Well...there were lots of things he could say. He could deny. Deny, yeah. After all...  
"...for some time."  
What? What? He looked at George. His voice came out as a croak. "For sometime what?"  
George waved his hand vaguely in circles. "You. Paul. It figures. It's there between you all the time. It's difficult to fight it, isn't it? Even if you wanted to."  
John sighed, and ran a hand wearily over his face. "Paul'd be mortified."  
"Well, you could be more careful where you place love bites." There was a touch of amusement in that voice. John glanced up, hopeful.  
"You're not...annoyed?"  
"Why should I be?"  
"Well..it's..it's perverted.."  
"Ooh..long word there, John. And since when has anything like that stopped you. When we were in Hamburg you did all kinds of perverted things..."  
John smiled impishly "That I did son"  
"...including Paul."  
The smile dropped from John's face. He looked in amazement at George. "You knew? Back then you knew?"  
George's smile was wise beyond it's years. "Yeah, I knew. Reckon others had it figured out too. Just never said. Figured if you pair wanted to talk about it you would. Paul never said anything, so...I didn't. I thought you might confide in me at some point, but then, when we got famous, you both seemed to stop." George looked closely at John. "Am I right?"  
Christ, thought John, what the fuck am I doing sitting here discussing my love life with our youngest band member? Nonetheless, he found himself nodding.  
"Yup, you're right. It was a joint decision...too dangerous..not just for us, but for everyone involved, the scandal, an' that. An' then.." John's eyes narrowed, remembering " Cyn got pregnant, an' for Paul that was it. I guess if he'd been more willing, I would have, but he put his foot down, so..." John shrugged.  
"Until this tour..." George prompted gently.  
"Fuck" John groaned. "It's been stressful..an' then..Paul is always around. It's hard, y'know? It's like having a glass waved in front of y' every night an' be told y' can't drink it."  
John sighed, and whispered quietly. "I've never stopped fancying him...that's the problem. Never."  
"Is that all it is?"  
"Huh?" John looked into George's warm brown eyes, and another pair of eyes swam into his mind...wide, hazel eyes, a quirky smile, ..John felt a lump rise in his throat.  
"Fuck, no, it's not all...it'll never be all. I love the bugger...always have from the minute I saw him...always will."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 28th August 1966 Dodger Stadium L.A.

John surfaced slowly from sleep, feeling incredibly relaxed, and gradually became aware that something was tickling his nose. With half-closed eyes he moved a hand to brush the annoying itch and his hand collided with a head of dark hair that was nestled on his chest, a stray strand of which was moving with his every breath. A lazy smile spread across John's face and he carefully laid his arm back across Paul's still slumbering figure, taking the time to enjoy such an intimate moment. On their return to the U.K. who knew how many moments like these would present themselves again. From outside the open windows he could hear birdsong and a breeze lifted the curtains slightly. John gave a contented sigh, and Paul's body rose and fell with it. Amusement spread across John's features. When they were younger and had shared beds, no matter how they had started out...back to back, on their sides, however they lay...John would always wake in a morning to Paul using him as a pillow. He gently, unconsciously, ran his thumb up and down Paul's spine, feeling every knobble, every curve. Paul shifted slightly and nestled even closer, as if he could dig himself into John's body.  
"Mornin' Macca" John whispered, not sure if the bassist was yet awake. No reply came. John closed his eyes and thought about home, his mind turning to Cynthia and Julian. Maybe he could have Paul over to stay for a bit when they got back. Hmm...it was tempting, but both Cyn and Paul in the same house? Cyn might want to go and visit her mother for a bit though...then John felt guilty. Here he was planning her departure when he'd not yet got home. Surely there was something they could do...songwriting!! Now there was a good excuse...they had another L.P. to prepare for. That would take some time...some thinking about. Lots of opportunities for them to get together. Christ..he'd shag Paul in the Abbey Road toilets if no other option came to hand.  
"Whatythinkinbout?" the words were mumbled, almost incoherent, into John's chest. John started. Had Paul read his mind? He ran his hand back up Paul's spine, stopping at the nape of his neck.  
"I'm devising ways to bugger you"  
Paul's head shot up, eyes wide. "What?"  
John smirked. "Well, y' did ask!"  
Paul shifted slightly up on to his arms to closer survey John.  
"Why me?"  
"Why not you?"  
"Well" a pause, then "I might like to bugger you."  
John's smile grew. "Go for it, I'd say. I'm easy on that."  
Paul's lips twitched in an affectionate smile. "Y' would be, too, wouldn't you?"  
"Certainly would, son...for you, anything."  
Paul slid off John's chest and almost slipped off the bed. John caught him quickly.  
"Fallin' for me, are y'?"  
"Ah, it's your hidden charms, Lennon."  
"An' what hidden charms would they be then?"  
With a devilish smile Paul reached down and tweaked John's cock.  
"Oooh..y' little devil, you. An' such an angel face too. No one would ever guess what went on in your mind, McCartney.'  
"You corrupted me..."  
"..did not.."  
"Did too.. me dad always said stay away from you."  
There was a seconds silence...a jibe far too close to the truth. Then John hugged Paul.  
"Bet you're glad y' didn't listen to him, though, eh?"  
Chewing his lips at his unintended faux pas, Paul nodded.  
John gave him another affectionate hug. "Gonna have to ask y' to move, son, me bladder's about bursting."  
Paul rolled off him, more carefully this time. "Oh, so romantic, John."  
"Yeah..well, what's romantic, eh? Wakin' up to your hair ticklin' me nose, that's what."  
He swung out of bed and drew a dressing gown round him.  
Paul gave a huge yawn. "Whassatime"  
John took a moment to decipher the sentence, then glanced round for the alarm clock. "Just after 10.00."  
Paul raised an eyebrow. "Ooh, quite early."  
John smirked. "Got ideas, have we?"  
"Might have. Y'comin' back to bed?"  
John looked at him in surprise. "Don't y' need to empty y' bladder?"  
Paul's head shook a no on the pillow. "Didn't drink as much as you."  
"That, my son, is because y' didn't stop talkin'....all night. Non stop. Yatter yatter yatter."  
Paul threw the pillow at John.

"Are they ever gettin' up?" Ringo indicated the still closed bedroom door, and glanced at the clock that was now heading into the afternoon.  
He'd aimed the sentence at George, but it was Brian that latched on to it. "If they don't emerge soon we'll have to knock them up. I know the show isn't until this evening, but there is the press conference."  
"Again" George interjected. Brian glanced at him, distracted.  
"Yes, well...part of the job, George, I'm afraid. Only two more to do."  
"I wouldn't mind so much if they asked decent questions. Y'know, Bri, one day why don't we make our own question list up of things we want to talk about, and hand 'em out to reporters. It might be far more interesting."  
Brian went to automatically dismiss such a suggestion, then realised that George had a point. He mulled it over.  
"Do you know..that's actually a good idea."  
George smirked, raising an eyebrow at Ringo.  
Brian was thinking now. "That is a really good idea. To have a Beatle led question and answer interview." Brian smiled and brightened up. "I'll remember that idea, George...good one there." Humming and smiling, he moved off in the direction of the kitchen. "Oh..if John and Paul don't emerge soon, could one of you knock them up please? Thank you."  
As Brian exited the room, Ringo looked at George.  
"So..d'you think it would work?"  
"What?"  
"Us...asking ourselves the questions."  
George leaned back and crossed one long leg over the other. "I could talk about gardening."  
"Gardening?"  
"Yeah..." George looked closely at Ringo "I'm actually interested in gardening, just never have time to do it."  
Ringo's mouth opened and closed soundlessly at such a revelation. All this time and he never knew that.  
George smiled at his shocked countenance.  
"Well, Rings, there must be things you'd like to do that you've never had time to."  
Ringo thought, his eyes blinking rapidly. At this precise moment in time he couldn't think of anything.  
"What d'you reckon Paul would want to talk about?"  
George burst out laughing. "He's a one track mind, man. It'd be music."  
Ringo smiled an agreement.  
"Bet Lennon'd come up with a few ripe ones though."  
"Oh yeah...he'd do it just to wind people up. Talking of which..." George rose to his feet. "I'm gonna go and knock 'em up. Can't believe they're still asleep at this time of day."  
"What d'you think they're doin' then?" Ringo asked artlessly. George merely raised an eyebrow. After his brief chat with John last night he'd a pretty good idea.  
"Oh, just..messin' around, knowing them two." 

Standing outside the door, George couldn't hear a thing. He knocked smartly on the door, a series of staccato taps.  
"John, Paul, you up yet?"  
Inside the room he heard sudden movement, a scrabbling, a muffled "fuck", and a suppressed giggle that just had to be Paul.  
"Coming..hold on" a voice sang out, trying to sound normal but failing. George hid his smile.  
Next moment, Paul flung the door open, his face beaming, his hair in all directions.  
"Y'okay Georgie?"  
George looked pointedly down at Paul's undressed state apart from a hastily thrown on dressing gown that did little to cover him.  
"Could ask the same of you Paul"  
Paul blushed slightly at the innuendo, but then John arrived at his side and slipped an arm around his waist, his eyes challenging George. George's eyes widened at the open display of affection, but didn't comment. For a second Paul squirmed in John's grasp, but John only tightened his arm around Paul even more, refusing to let go. George and John had locked knowing glances, and Paul felt out of the loop...also embarrassed to be standing here with John's arm around his waist.  
"Y'okay George?" John asked cheerily.  
Paul felt John's thumb rubbing circles on his hip. What the fuck was he being so openly affectionate about? Paul couldn't extricate himself without making a scene, so he leaned  
nearer in to John hoping George hadn't noticed the arm hug. Huh..fat chance of that! And was that a smile George was hiding?  
Paul glanced between the two men. Was something going on he didn't know about?  
George smiled warmly at Paul. "D'you reckon you could get dressed? Brian's starting to get jittery."  
Warmth flooded up Paul's face. The more casual he tried to look the more he blushed.  
"Yeah..yeah, sure..we were comin' in a minute anyway."  
John looked intently at him. "Were we?"  
Paul squirmed. "John!" he hissed.  
George's smile spread into an ear-splitting grin.  
"Well, I'll leave you two love birds to get dressed then, shall I?"  
He turned to descend the stairs, and could hear Paul's muffled and desperate queries. He shrugged to himself. John would soon sort him out.

"Paul, he knew. He's known ever since Hamburg."  
John didn't know Paul's face could go so many shades so rapidly, from white, through to pink, then red, and back again.  
"He..he what? No way. Oh fuck..shit..what must..oh that's crap."  
John calmly seated himself cross-legged on their bed and reached for a cigarette, considering the situation calmly. Well, actually, he was considering Paul, who had sat on the floor in a traumatised heap, and whose dressing gown had parted conveniently at the top of his thighs enough for John to get sight of...  
Paul tugged his gown around him, glaring at John.  
"This is all your fault."  
John blinked owlishly. "Mine? What have I done?"  
"You..you.." Paul subsided. There was no answer. He tugged at his messy dark locks. "What are we gonna do?" He looked up at John, hoping he had a solution. John shrugged. He really didn't see a problem.  
"Do? We don't need to DO anything, Paul. S'far easier if George knows...an' if George does then Ringo soon will, an' as for Bri, well, he's long had his suspicions. It's his gaydar."  
Paul's mouth dropped open. So did EVERYONE know? He suddenly felt very vulnerable. John sensed the shift in mood, and beckoned him up on to the bed at his side. Unthinking, Paul sank down at the side of John, his thoughts in a whirl. He started chewing his thumbnail, eyes dark, brow furrowed. John shook his head fondly, pulled the thumb out of Paul's mouth, leaned forward and kissed him. Paul reciprocated for a moment, then pulled back, annoyed.  
"THAT'S not gonna sort anything, John."  
John grinned. "No, I know, but it's good, innit."  
With a frustrated groan Paul picked up the nearest object...the pillow...and began beating John with it. After a few seconds of being brutalised, John caught Paul's wrists, preventing him from doing any more damage.  
"Whoa...whoa...a little feisty, aren't we?"  
Panting, Paul glared at John. "You're telling me that most of our entourage..."  
"..only George n' probably Ringo an' Brian.."  
"..know about us? How?"  
John leaned back and looked at Paul. His reply was infuriatingly calm. "Well...I guess it just shows."  
Paul took advantage of his lax state and attacked him with the pillow again. "Well...DO something...anything.."  
John's smile was replaced by a more serious visage. "Paul..Paulie, come on..put that down..you'll break something."  
"Yeah...your fuckin' head."  
"What? With a pillow? I don't think so son."  
Paul let the pillow drop. He was angry and humiliated and every emotion in between. John lifted his chin, forcing Paul to look at him.  
"Is it really so bad?"  
Paul sniffed.  
"After all" John continued " doesn't it make it easier for us to get together? No on's judging us, Paul. No one's disgusted. No one thinks any less of you or me. After all, love is love, isn't it, whatever form it takes."  
John leaned forward and gently kissed Paul on the forehead.  
Paul's eyes scanned John's face, flickering over it questioningly.  
John's smile was tender, and he stroked Paul's cheek gently with his thumb.  
"Love you, y' daft sod..." he muttered.  
Next moment he had Paul in his arms.

"Considering the state of religion, and the impact your comment may have had on impressionable young...."  
Ringo's mind drifted off. Gardening. Maybe someone should ask George about gardening. Ringo half listened to John's extremely bored reply..well, if the interviewer was looking for another apology he certainly wasn't gonna get one today.  
"...if marriage was on the cards?"  
Well, that would be Paul. Ringo kept daydreaming. Paul. Paul and John. Had it come as a surprise? Did he feel shocked? He shifted in his seat, and reached for the glass of water. Whatever Paul had replied, the reporters were chuckling. Paul always managed to charm them. Would he charm them if they knew?....whoa...don't go down there Ritchie, he chided himself. Leave that one in the closet. He almost choked on his drink at the unintended joke. Paul looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He mouthed 'sorry' back at him.  
"..the name Zak from?" Oh. Me. "Well, it had a sort of cowboy feel to it. I've always liked cowboy films, y'know."  
Finally, they were out. Just the show, and they didn't have far to travel. An armoured truck was taking them directly to the stage. Forty five thousand people in the audience. Ringo had forgotten what it was like to hear himself. Heaven knew if he was playing on the beat. Still playing these thirty minute sets. In fact, was it even thirty minutes? Ringo was sure they'd got faster. All seemed okay until Paul started the last song, which was Long Tall Sally. The promoters only had one hundred and two security men...absolutely nothing for such a large audience. As soon as Paul began to sing there was a rush of what seemed to be thousands of screaming fans..not at them on the stage, but in the direction of their armoured car. They surrounded the car and covered all the routes out, thereby trapping the Beatles in the stadium. They piled into their car and the driver shouted "Hold very tight, folks" slammed the vehicle into reverse and drove it at breakneck speed. It was a miracle no one was hurt as fans leapt out of the way of the rapidly reversing car. However, the ploy didn't work, and finally the driver put the car into first gear and managed to get them to a dug out where the Beatles exited the car swiftly, and ended up in the underground changing rooms while fans ran riot outside and the security tried to get control. For a while it looked as though they may have to spend the night there. It took well over two hours before security had control of the Dodger Stadium again. There had been riots and the police had been hit with bottles and pieces of wood that fans had broken off the fencing. Fearing for their lives and feeling trapped, the lads could only huddle together. They were all despairing when Ringo said in a tiny voice "Can I please go home to my mummy now, please can I?"  
Three attempts were made to get the boys out of the stadium...two limousines, and finally an ambulance that crashed into fencing that had been broken down. It took extra squads of police from the sheriff's department in another armoured car before they finally managed to escape. The one little bit of humour in what had been a very scary couple of hours was the fact that the armoured car they had arrived in was not only unusable, but two fans had run away with the ignition key as a souvenir.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 29th August 1966 Candlestick Park, San Francisco...the final concert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew...finally here...the last chapter. Thanks for all who've stayed with me.

29th August 1966.

The day dawned bright and clear, if rather blustery, forewarning of the autumn weather that lay just over the horizon. There was a leisurely start to the day as the flight to San Francisco was not until four that afternoon. George found himself first downstairs, and wandered through the kitchen procuring food and drink on his way, one eye watching the bushes blowing around in the garden, and the birds who were delighting in riding the wind, their wings outstretched.  
"Mornin' Harri" John's voice cut through his reverie. He turned with a broad smile, feeling more relaxed than he had for a long time. End of tour. End of touring.  
"Mornin' John. D'you wanna cuppa?"  
John frowned slightly "Well..yeah, I do, but I came down to make one for Paul too. Promised him..y'know...last time.." A shadow crossed John's face, and George's own smile dropped a little.   
"Is he okay?"  
There was a pause before John answered, as if he was thinking. George raised a quizzical eyebrow.  
"Yeah..well, y'know...probably not, not really, but ... " John sighed " reckon I'll just make him this tea."  
"He's not gonna change his mind, is he?" George had a momentary panic.  
John shook his head. "No. No, he ain't gonna change his mind, if that's what y' worrying about. Told me he won't. He's feelin' it, though, y'know?"  
John looked intently at George. Yes, George did know. Of all of them Paul had, as the years had passed, become the most vested in the group. Probably always had been, but as their interest and enthusiasm had waned Paul's had never wavered. George felt a pang of sympathy for his old friend. The years that lay behind them were full of memories...hell, they'd packed so much into their short lives.   
"We'll be okay...s'not as if we're splittin' up." George murmured.  
"No, I know. He'll be okay...just gotta get through today.."

Paul was quiet. Everyone noticed. Impossible not to. Usually the non-stop talker, it was as if someone had thrown a switch. No one felt they could approach him as he had thrown an invisible shield around himself. And again, that was Paul. It was his coping mechanism. They all knew that. But it brought a sombre mood to the household, dampening everyone's enthusiasm. Only John wormed his way past the veneer Paul had so carefully built, handling the withdrawn bassist with kid gloves. As the clock ticked away, nearing their departure time, it was as if a funereal silence had descended on the house. Mal and Neil had built a pile of luggage in the entrance hall consisting of suitcases, guitar cases, dissembled drum kit, souvenir trinkets the boys had purchased to take home, suitbags holding the suits and shirts for that night, boxes of labelled shoes. An air of desolation hung over the whole proceeding. Paul was only too well aware he was the cause of it, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't find any joy within himself to enable him to lift it. In fact, he was barely holding it together, but he didn't want the others to know that.   
Brian found he was talking in hushed tones, issuing last minute instructions. It was as if someone had died.   
George was really feeling it. He'd started the day with a feeling of relief that touring days were over, but Paul's emotions had permeated every aspect of their household, and now George was finding he too was becoming affected.  
Ringo drew deeply on a cigarette, and announced to no-one in particular "When's the execution, then?"  
Paul looked up sharply. A pang of guilt sliced through him. He rose swiftly to his feet, then became aware of the fact he didn't know why he had...he glanced around, seeking a refuge, an escape route.   
"I...I, er..." his eyes darted round, confused and embarrassed to find he seemed to be the centre of attention...he sought for a solution.."..er..need a..erm.."  
He caught John's eye, and in it he read a mixture of amusement and sympathy. John stepped forward.  
"We were gonna check we hadn't left anything, weren't we."  
Paul nodded, relief flooding his face.  
Everyone knew it was bullshit.   
The atmosphere lightened as John steered Paul out of the lounge and into their bedroom. Someone cleared their throat. Brian gave a nervous cough.  
"Er..you are all okay, aren't you? It's been a difficult tour." His glance swept over George and Ringo. Ringo calmly crossed his legs and carried on smoking.  
"It'll be good to get home, Eppy." Eppy. Brian didn't remember George ever calling him that before. It was always John's title for him...well..it was when John was in a good mood. It was Brian in no uncertain terms when he wasn't.  
Brian's glance continued, noting the firmly closed bedroom door. There was a twist in his gut. It wasn't going to be easy for them.

Candlestick Park was the home of the baseball team the San Francisco Giants. In the dressing rooms there was a party going on. Anyone who was a celebrity had wormed there way in. It being the last night of the tour there were no holds barred. It was certainly better inside the dressing room than it was outside, where the stage had been situated at second base. August nights there were cold, foggy and windy. The compere was 'Emperor' Gene Nelson of KYA 1260 am and in the blustery weather he was doing his best to keep the show going....one of the warm-up acts was singing "Sunny" even as the fog swirled around him. All Gene Nelson could hear was the shouts of "Beatles, Beatles, Beatles" from the crowd. The dressing room was in chaos, with everyone jostling for space. Brian was in despair at trying to locate all four Beatles, and get them ready to go on.

"It's not the end of the world, Paul."  
Paul looked at John, then looked away, his gaze falling upon a particularly dirty patch of wall. He gathered himself together, playing for time.  
"I know" he finally sighed. He rummaged in a bag near to him, and produced a compact machine.  
"I got this..."  
"What is it?"  
"It's an audio cassette..y'know..a hand held recorder...I thought we could..we ..maybe someone " He twisted it in his hands, trying to keep himself together. Drawing a breath, he tried again "I thought maybe Tony could record us..last time, like, y'know..for posterity, as it were.." Paul's voice hitched slightly, and he turned his face away from John, staring intently at another badly painted patch on the wall.  
John smiled to himself, his eyes warm and sad. He placed his hand on Paul's arm.  
"Macca?" It was a gentle query. He sensed Paul pull himself together.  
"M'okay..honest.." Paul turned to look at John, drawing on every reserve of strength he had. "I'm okay, John.."  
John tutted slightly to himself, and stroked his thumb along Paul's cheek, pausing at his lips. Paul's smile was hesitant.  
"Not time for a makin' out session now, Lennon" he joked softly.  
John looked serious, his eyes scanning Paul's face, as if he could commit it to memory. They had been together for so long that he could feel the turmoil Paul was desperately trying to hide.  
"We'll be okay, y'know. You..me.." John whispered.  
Paul chewed the inside of his lip, and nodded. "Yeah, I know."  
"It'll be a new beginning...there's so much we've yet to do."  
Paul didn't trust his voice to reply. He just gave another nod.  
"It'll be just like starting over.."  
"Starting over.." Paul echoed John's words, his eyes never leaving John's face, as if he could ground himself.  
John leaned forward, and gently met Paul's lips with his own. The kiss was chaste.  
John pulled back, quirked a smile, and said "Come on, Macca, let's go show them what we can do, eh? Let's make it a good one."

They began their set at nine twenty seven to screams and cheers. Only twenty five thousand of the forty thousand tickets had been sold. Yet another reason, George thought grimly, to stop touring. Playing to half filled stadiums was not his idea of fun. He glanced sideways, watching Paul. He just hoped his long time friend would be okay. George determined that he would make it right with him. He'd do his level best to make sure that Paul didn't regret this choice.   
God, it was cold on that stage, and the wind and the fog swirled round them. George glanced round at Ringo, who was beaming, his hair blowing in the wind, the end of his nose red. Nearly there. Almost there. Paul was announcing their last number, Long Tall Sally. George saw Ringo step down and place a camera on one of the amplifiers. George knew that Paul had managed to get Tony Barrow to record the concert for their own keepsake, but now here was Ringo fixing to get a photo. He scrambled back up to his drum kit for the start of Long Tall Sally, and then, in a blink of an eye, it was over, and Ringo was coming down, sorting something on the camera as he did so...he crossed the stage swiftly to them, indicating it.   
"Get together" he urged "I've got it on a timer...come on, quick" He ushered them together, and they turned their backs on the audience and faced the camera as the flash went off, together for the last time...the Beatles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I often wonder what this last photograph that they took was like...a poignant moment.


End file.
